Alphabetique
by MercedesCarello
Summary: A series of prompted one-shot drabbles for words for each letter of the alphabet, posted as they were written. Mixture of canon character (such as Jean, Armin, Hanji, Erwin, Reiner) and OC stuff - focus characters noted in chapter titles. Mix of ratings and subjects, so rated M overall to be safe.
1. Systematic - OCs

For the letter 'S', I was given 'systematic'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: (OCs) Mercedes, Baena, Fhalz and Oliver.  
Genre: Humor, 'Backstory'

* * *

Systematic

_**adjective**_ \ˌsis-tə-ˈma-tik\  
: using a careful system or method : done according to a system

The morning's sweep of the Titans harrying the Trost gate repairmen had gone badly. Though she had been confident in her selections for the squad and they'd seen gradual but consistent improvement over the past few months, Mercedes had been surprised to see how unconcerted they were. It was as though they'd only just met; it even showed now in the way their hands bumped into one another as they gathered breakfast onto their plates in the Trost Garrison HQ mess hall.

No one spoke, and they barely looked at one another. Mercedes caught glimpses of their expressions – embarrassment, frustration, anxiety, uncertainty – and remembered Squad Leader Brzenska's face when they'd been helped out and then ascended back up the Wall. She had looked disappointed, snapped that they should go back to the trainee camp. Though it was hard, Mercedes tried to do the mature thing and look back to see what she'd done wrong – she was supposed to be their eventual, formal Squad Leader, and so this was her responsibility.

As she slowly tore into her warm loaf, watching every individual fiber of the pale breadflesh be ripped asunder, she thought of the way Oliver and Fhalz's lines had tangled, and how that distraction had led to Baena being grabbed. She thought of the poor strike angles, the dissolution of their practiced attack and defense patterns because of their squabbling and lack of cohesion. They could have all died if the other squad hadn't intervened, and for what? Silliness. She'd thought they were all of one mind but apparently not yet – on the field they'd faltered and followed their own individual instincts to recover, and it'd nearly ruined them. Would a fifth squad member have helped after all? Should she have followed the training advice she'd been given rather than trusting her own methods? Should she have said or done something else to get them back on track?

Their quiet isolated them from the rest of the voices in the hall. Mercedes felt the rest of her senses feel numb, too – she barely smelled or tasted her food and really she didn't even want to eat. Another glance up told her that the others weren't really eating, either. She looked into her cup as she took a swig of water instead.

"I have an idea."

Mercedes looked up at Baena's unusually quiet voice, across from her. Her hands were in her lap and though her face was less cheery than normal, she had a hesitant smile on her face. Fhalz and Oliver looked at her, too.

"I think I know something that will help," she added, and her smile grew stronger, her confidence seeming to return. She jerked her head behind her to indicate the door. "Come on, let's follow Rico's advice and go to the training yard."

Despite their confusion and doubt, one by one they got up and followed her. That was the thing about Baena – the thing Mercedes had caught onto not long into her trial period – everything she suggested they went along with, because it always seemed to end up being to their benefit. Mercedes doubted their mixture of personalities and abilities would have gone together half as well if Baena hadn't been involved. She was their glue.

The air outside was crisp and autumnal, and the few trees that Mercedes could see between the buildings were changing colors until they matched the red dirt of the training yard. She could smell the change of the seasons on the air – a nostalgic smell that, since it didn't match with her memories of her home in Klorva, must stretch back even further to their ranch outside the Walls and the forest that'd surrounded it. The training yard by contrast was relatively small, flat, and empty. She'd started to see a pattern in its use, and Wednesday mornings around this time seemed to be fairly empty for some reason. They rounded a low wall and Baena took them into the center.

"So what's this big idea of yours?" Fhalz asked somewhat irritably. His collar-length auburn hair was briefly completely down before he re-tied the upper portion back from his face.

"I never said it was a big one," Baena corrected. "Let's stand in a circle," she instructed and hesitantly, they obeyed. She took a quick, deep breath and briefly closed her eyes, smiling as if appreciating the weather. "Okay!" she said happily. "Let's take off our clothes!"

"What?" Fhalz exclaimed, recoiling a little.

"We need to take off our clothes. Here, I'll start," she repeated and began to remove her uniform jacket.

"Baena, I don't –" Mercedes began.

"Come on, trust me!"

Though looking around nervously, Oliver began to copy her.

Fhalz clenched his fists as she dropped her jacket to the ground and tugged on her boots. "You can't seriously expect us to –"

"It can't be any worse than what happened this morning, so strip!" Baena said.

Frowning and begrudgingly, Mercedes pulled off her boots and socks. Baena had already rid herself of her gear harness and was working at the buttons on her white pants, pushing them down to her ankles and stepping out of them without hesitation. She heard Fhalz scoff as he tore off his jacket.

Oliver gingerly pulled up his gray shirt and slowly tugged it off.

"It's worse when you go slow like that!" Fhalz yelled and hit Oliver's arm. "Let's hurry up and get this over with – whatever the fuck it is." He finished unbuttoning his blue shirt and shed it too.

Piece by piece, they systematically removed each item of their clothes and dropped them in a pile between them, the chill in the air causing goosebumps to ripple up every limb. Luckily, Mercedes didn't see anyone else walk by.

After another couple of minutes they stood facing each other in various states of embarrassment, with Baena at the least embarrassed end of the scale and Fhalz at the opposite end. Hands and arms awkwardly attempted to cover their genitalia.

"Don't bother trying to cover up. Defeats the point," Baena demanded.

Gingerly, arms relaxed and rested at their sides, even though shoulders hunched and heads were lowered, gazes averting.

"There, see?" Baena said and put her hands on her hips. "If we can stand here like this for five minutes, then we'll never have anything to be ashamed about in front of each other again. No secrets, nothing to hold us back, nothing to make us feel above or separate from the other. We won't screw up ever again – at least not because we didn't trust each other."

Mercedes was surprised. As much credit as she'd given to Baena's bonding abilities, her quirkiness had stopped her from thinking of her as capable of any intuitive thought. She was happy to be wrong.

As the minutes ticked by, though they shivered no one gave in or left the circle. Faces and body language relaxed. It was like she could physically see their confidence and trust improving with every moment. They were even eventually able to make eye contact. By the end of the five minutes, they were even smiling a little.

"All better?" Baena said triumphantly.

The others grumbled in agreement.

"So from now on every time we have a disagreement, or something goes wrong, or we think about hiding something, we should remember this. We win." Her wide grin dropped and she bent over to retrieve her clothes out of the pile, "And I'm fucking cold so let's get dressed now."


	2. Obsess(ed) - Jean, Marco, OC

For the letter 'O', I was given 'obsessed'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: Jean, mentions of Mercedes (OC) and Marco  
Genre: Angst

* * *

Obsess(ed)  
_**  
verb**_**\əb-****ˈ****ses, äb-\  
**: to be the only person or thing that someone thinks or talks about : to think and talk about someone or something too much

It was their second day at the chalet; the others were either sound asleep upstairs or on patrol. Jean had woken from a bad dream – not quite a nightmare, but not pleasant enough to be classed as a regular dream – and he'd spent the next hour tossing and turning, before he had retreated to the underbelly of the stronghold in the form of its kitchen. The fire to cook the evening meal had long died down to smoldering coals, but it was enough for him to light a single candle. He was glad no one else was around to see how lame he looked sitting at a prep table with it by himself.

He'd dreamt of her again. Mercedes, the girl Marco had liked. He'd dreamt of them both, actually. It hadn't been the first time but this one had been more potent. He pinched his nose to give his sinuses some relief; it was like the dream had cloyed them.

It had started at the funeral pyre – the one they'd cremated Marco on. Unlike in the waking world, this time he had seen them place his body onto it. Mercedes had been on the other side of the flames just as she had after Trost, only this time she had actually climbed up into it, walking unharmed into the flames, her clothes, hair and eyes becoming fire, until she came to Marco's body. She had pulled him to his feet and somehow he'd stood there, the lost half of his body regenerating in the form of flames until he was solid flesh and bone again.

As much as he cringed to remember it now, Jean had watched her wrap her arms around Marco and kiss him, the two of them standing there on that pyre of misery, languishing and yet relishing in it as the flames grew ever stronger until they were obscured in blue and gold.

He'd woken sweaty and feverish, as though he really had been standing in front of a ten-foot fire. It wasn't the only time he'd dreamt of Marco's corpse or funeral pyre. No, what had really unnerved him was the confusing, horrible mix of feelings the appearance of Mercedes had provoked in him. Amazement, disgust, relief, fear – it was all there. Most disturbing of all was a dark, twisted sort of envy: that in this dreamworld she was managing to be closer to Marco, even in death, than he would ever be again; but also, obscurely, that unlike him, even in death Marco had found out the truth about her through that kiss; in this world, all Jean's mouth tasted was ash.

_Stop it, you're being ridiculous,_ he told himself. _It was just a dream. You need to let the both of them go. Marco is dead and Mercedes may as well be, to you._

Jean's body betrayed him, however. His hand pushed into the pocket of his pajama trousers and drew out the lock of Mercedes' hair he'd taken from the ground the night he'd stopped her from cutting it all off. He brought it between him and the candle to examine, pulling it through and wrapping it around his fingers, watching the light glimmer off it. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it. Over the last few months it'd grown a little thinner due to being unsecured and losing hairs here and there, but its strange hold over him hadn't lessened. He'd heard of powers of control before – taking something of the other person, like hair, and using it as part of a spell to get them to do whatever you wanted, or injure them – but he'd never thought the stories carried any weight until now. Wasn't he supposed to be able to affect her, in that case, rather than the other way around?

_What would happen if I… _he held the lock high above the candle's flame, tracing its wave and languid spiral down from his thumb and forefinger to its tip, waving at him in the tiny column of heat dissipating into the dark. _If I burnt it, would I stop dreaming of her, of him?_

Almost of its own accord, or as if someone was pulling him back, Jean retracted the lock from the flame and put his head in his hands. The cool strand of hair brushed against his cheek and the small enjoyment he got from the sensation made him snap to attention. He checked the kitchen – still vacant. His hands fell back together in front of him, stroking the lock some more as he frowned and thought.

_I don't know if I want to stop dreaming, _he admitted. _It's all I have. The others,_ he thought of his squadmates, _they have each other, or they want to save humanity – my purpose isn't as clear anymore. Maybe it burned itself out._


	3. Gravity - OCs

For the letter 'G', I was given 'gravity'.  
Rating: K  
Characters: (OCs) Oliver, with mentions of Mercedes, Baena and Fhalz  
Genre: General, friendship, 'backstory'

* * *

Gravity

_**noun**_, _**often attributive**_ \ˈgra-və-tē\  
: a very serious quality or condition : the condition of being grave or serious : the natural force that tends to cause physical things to move towards each other : the force that causes things to fall towards the Earth

One of Oliver's secret pleasures was a simple one: him, his gear, the Wall, and the power of flight. Although his naturally responsible nature made him reluctant to use gas if it wasn't necessary, every so often he was able to convince 'Cee and the others to do an aerial training exercise or two that didn't involve killing Titans. Lately they seemed to have caught on to his ploy, and didn't put up any protest when he 'practiced' for longer than they did. Today, for example: an hour's practice together, and then the other three had retreated to the top of the wall to have their mid-afternoon snack. He could see their feet dangling over the edge, even from twenty meters below.

Oliver fired a line some distance away, and heard the impact of the hook anchoring itself in the Wall. He looked down at the streets of Karanese some thirty meters below. How long ago had he played in those streets that were now no larger than veins in an arm? Was that the corner where the other children in the neighborhood had teased him, thrown rocks at him? Was that the street where they'd chased him, shouting those nasty nicknames and nearly persuading him that he'd never be anything?

He smiled. It was so far away – physically and figuratively. He disengaged his current line and his view upended itself as he swung right just over the surface of the Wall, like a bird over water; the sky and the Wall and the town had switched places and he loved it. He disengaged the line early, delighting in the sudden, brief feeling of free-falling. Unlike the time the other boys had pushed him off a cart and the terror he'd felt as nothing caught him except their shouts of 'lummox', 'fatty', 'dung-boy', this time he felt joy and confidence. He could catch himself.

Oliver deployed both lines and snatched himself from death, and then just as quickly rebounded off the Wall and arced into the space farther out. Up here, he was accurate and graceful, powerful, part of something larger. He was no longer a creature of earth. He laughed, swinging himself from line to line, scaling and dropping on the Wall like his own personal playground.

He hurtled downward on one line and at the base of the curve, heaved with all his muscles into the arc upward. It took him up above the rim of the Wall past his friends, who smiled, laughed, and waved at him. He grinned back. From up here he could see the world, and he had them to thank.


	4. Voracious - Jean, OC

For the letter 'V', I was given 'voracious'.  
Rating: M  
Characters: Jean, Mercedes (OC)  
Genre: Romance, smut

* * *

Voracious

_**adjective**_ \vȯ-ˈrā-shəs, və-\  
**:** having a huge appetite **:** excessively eager

Jean couldn't take his mind off her – Mercedes had occupied it seemingly non-stop ever since he'd been at the ranch. Maybe it was the fact that they were four days away from their responsibilities and troubles, indeed anything resembling their normal life, or maybe it was how being back in the comfort and safety of her childhood home made her radiant. They'd barely spent any time alone together since he and the others had got here, and it was driving him crazy. He wanted her lips on his. He wanted to wake up next to her. He wanted to whisper in her ear all the things he wanted to do to her. He wanted her.

Just as the thoughts had driven Jean to distraction, now they drove him out of the back door of the house in search of her. Her grandmother and the others remained inside, still enjoying the midafternoon meal; she had apparently disappeared outside before he had woken from sleeping in and no one seemed to know anything concrete about where she'd gone or what she was up to.

It was a beautiful day outside – one of the best he'd seen in a while, to be honest – with a clear sky and a pleasant breeze. In front of him stretched the rolling field of the Carello acreage that'd backed the house. After so long of being bereft of horses, the grass was high and filled with wildflowers and saplings. He wondered if Mercedes intended to ever come back and reclaim it.

First he searched the immediate area around the house, and the stables. Nothing. What must have once been the external portion of Julia's workshop – nothing. Even the remains of a vegetable garden and toolshed – nothing. Her horse had still been in the stables with others due to the broken perimeter fence, so he knew she couldn't have gone that far.

He broadened his search and waded into the meadow, the wind tumbling his hair in front of his face. As he idly headed forward, his gaze was attracted to a natural fold in the land with a few trees, and through them he caught a glimmer of light on water. A decent-sized pond, he realized when he craned his neck and bobbed to adjust his view. He followed an old horse path toward it, weaving downward through the wheat-colored older grass and the fresh green and colored sprigs of the flowers.

As he got closer Jean could see that the pond was a little overgrown, but had likely been a watering hole for the horses. But even more promisingly, he spotted a glint of color that definitely wasn't wildflowers. He diverted his course to try to keep himself concealed a little longer, and finally ended up sneaking into some bushes to get behind a tree close to the water.

Mercedes was wading in the shallows of the pond, the tan of her skirt bunched up around her waist and tucked into her belt, her braid pulled over one shoulder, as she investigated a grove of tall white flowers with lush, spiky green leaves. The dark red of her sleeveless blouse was brilliant in the sunshine.

He'd give her a minute, then announce his presence and surprise her. In a minute. He hid himself lower when she leaned upright and looked around her, slowly wading back to shore. To his surprise, she untied the cord at the nape of her neck and then pulled her blouse over her head, followed by unfastening her belt and untying her skirt, letting them all drop to the grass.

_Shit, you should say something,_ he frantically thought. Jean opened his mouth to speak but blushed violently when he realized Mercedes had pulled off her combat bra and was now stepping out of her underwear. _Too late. Shit. Now what?_ He averted his eyes but embarrassed curiosity dragged them back.

Her back was to him now as she waded back into the pond, her arms held outward, the bronze of her skin aglow. She dipped under the water and then back up, lazily swimming farther out, and then back, and then out, and then back again. She wiped loose pieces of hair back from her face. After a few more moments she came back to shore, returning again to the flowers she'd been examining earlier. He couldn't help but watch raptly as inch after inch of her came above the waterline, every curve and muscle glistening.

He'd never seen a naked woman before, though he'd imagined plenty of times. The notion of it being real had only come around since he'd realized his feelings for Mercedes, but Jean felt guilty spying on her like this. He'd thought it be different, somehow: a piece at a time, or in candlelight on his wedding night if he ever had one, or something. Not in broad daylight from behind a tree. And yet…

She was picking some of the flowers now. He could hear the crunch and snap of their hollow stalks as she gathered them, their blousy petals brushing against her skin. His eyes traced the valley between her shoulder muscles over her spine, the slope of her hip and the dimples just above her ass, the line of shadow beneath one breast.

_You're getting creepy now, come on,_ he told himself, feeling his body heat up. _If you stay here much longer you're going to be in big trouble._

Water sloshed again, less and less deep, as Mercedes came back to shore, stepping onto the grassy bank. She was close now. Jean could see the trails the water droplets made as they ran down her legs, the tiny tongues of the wet hair on her neck behind her ear, the pale shells of her nails as they tore off the lower leaves on the flower stalks. She was even smiling contentedly to herself, humming a slow tune with her eyes lowered to her work as if she hadn't a care in the world. His heart beat faster. She was beautiful. Did she know it? God he wanted her so bad.

_Fuck it,_ he thought, and fought his way around and out of the bushes.

At his noise Mercedes dropped the flowers and grabbed her clothes from the ground, holding them in front of her. She seemed about to call out an insult but froze when she saw it was him. Her eyes didn't leave his and that more than anything made his blood feel on fire in his veins. She didn't seem offended, and her shock was draining from her face to be replaced by a hesitancy.

The memory of her kiss back in Trost drew Jean slowly forward, down the slope through the grass studded with pale blue, sweet-smelling flowers. He watched the water drip off the end of her braid and darken a patch of her skirt, and felt his restraint siphoning away with it. Mercedes didn't move, her face falling into an odd neutrality as she watched his hand reach up and push her braid back over her shoulder. Now that he stood directly in front of her, he could see her chest rising and falling as quickly as his own. His fingertips then rose, and gently pulled a piece of her wet hair away from her lips. Her eyes were still lowered; she still held on to her clothes.

Jean was suddenly conscious of how alone they were out here, how empty it was around them. It gave him confidence again, and opened the gate for all of the things he'd thought about her to return. Out here in the open, standing in front of her, he felt his hunger for her build again and this time, did not try to stop it.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Drop them."

He saw her blush and it was the loveliest thing he'd seen in a long while. After a moment, Mercedes did so, letting the blouse and skirt fall from her hands.

"Tell me what you want," he said next. His hands trailed down her damp arm and back. The water on her front half seeped through his shirt when he pulled her lightly against him.

"Kiss me," she replied.

"That's not very specific."

"I know."

It was a good thing, though, because he wanted to kiss every inch of her. He had to begin, of course, with her mouth, and angled her face up to his. His lips hovered over hers, drawing out the moment, enjoying the way her eyes were hooded and held that sparkle of a smile. Her hand snaked up his chest and held onto the back of his neck, one insistent finger trying to push him closer, and in response he took a handful of hair at the base of her braid and pulled her head farther back, kissing her deeply. His other hand smoothed over her lower back, sweeping away the water droplets warmed by the sun.

Mercedes let this continue a little longer, allowing his mouth to trail to her ear, her neck, the star on her collarbone. Jean was so caught up in the salty, earthy taste of her skin that it took him a moment to notice how she deftly she undid the buttons of his shirt. He smiled a little when she gently pushed him to his knees, and looked up to find her smiling back down at him. Her hands crooked over his shoulders, pushing his shirt and vest apart and back, and he let them slide to the ground. He hung on to her wide hips as he pressed his lips to the muscles of her stomach and abdomen, the slightly-hidden notch of her hipbone, the top of her thigh, in a little… Her hand tangled in his hair, keeping him near.

"Have you done this before?" he heard her ask over the sound of his heart in his ears. Her voice was a purr. She let her legs part a little and that small movement was intoxicating in of itself.

"No," he managed.

"Me neither."

Jean's fingers dug into her thighs and Mercedes seemed to get the hint, kneeling too. He kissed her again and she worked at his belt and the fastenings of his uniform pants, pushing everything out of the way and pulling him against her. She collapsed on her back and pulled him with her, and with a little kicking and shoving he'd lost his clothes, too. The feeling of his skin on hers was just as wonderful as he'd imagined it would be, and now for it to be the whole length of them, with nothing over them apart from the sunshine and the breeze, he felt both anchored by her and his desire for her but also free in a way he'd never felt before.

"I love you," they whispered to each other a few times as their bodies seemed to move of their own accord, following some kind of choreography that, after a few fumbles and laughter, settled into a rhythm as natural as breathing.

* * *

After what felt like hours, Jean and Mercedes lay in each other's arms on their discarded clothes in the flattened grass, watching wisps of white cloud rove overhead and the wildflowers bob their heads around them, concealing them in their own private world. Jean felt the sting of where her nails had dug into or raked down his back, and he knew they'd both have other marks on their necks and lips from where they'd been a little too eager. He didn't care, though.

His arm wrapped around her shoulders, he idly played with the braid they'd undone a few minutes ago so her hair could dry in the sun. She readjusted the leg she still had hooked over him and it sent a shiver down him, reminding him of how he'd moved inside her and the incredible oblivion they'd reached. She still wore the same smile.

Jean felt a stupid grin twist his mouth. "Wanna go for round two?"

"Don't you mean three? And at any rate," her hand smoothed over his chest as she propped herself up and looked down at him, "we should probably make an appearance back at the house sometime today."

"Overrated," he said, and pulled her back into a kiss. This time she ended up on her back, with his head pressed to her chest, her hand caressing his cheek. He could hear her heartbeat. "I wish we could stay here forever." Their legs entwined.

"Maybe one day we can," she replied. After a long pause in which they listened to the wind rustling the grass, she said, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being patient enough to love me."

"In that case, I owe you thanks for that too. But it was well worth it."

"Yes it was."

As they dozed Jean's head was filled with images of their future together – horribly unrealistic given their world and their role in it, but he allowed himself to pretend. He couldn't wait to get to each of them.


	5. Frivolity - OCs

For the letter 'F', I was given 'frivolity'.  
Rating: K  
Characters: (OCs) Baena, Fhalz, Mercedes, and Oliver. Set a couple of years in the future.  
Genre: Friendship, Romance

* * *

Frivolity

_**noun**_ \fri-ˈvä-lə-tē\  
: a lack of seriousness : the quality or state of being silly or frivolous : something that is unnecessary or silly

The morning and better part of the afternoon of traipsing all over Wall Sina and Wall Rose had worn them down. But rather than their energy, it had worn down their guard and their reluctance, and what was left was laughter, grins, and excitement.

It was Baena's birthday. She herself was still away in Ehrmich with family for their traditional celebratory lunch, leaving Fhalz, Mercedes and Oliver to plot for her return. Initially Fhalz's dragged-out-of-him idea had left them a little dubious, but as time had gone on it'd become a game of sorts. Mercedes had smirked at how red Fhalz had become when she teased him about knowing exactly what Baena would love, and the gusto with which he had led them on horseback from town to town, gathering everything they needed. At first it'd been difficult to let go of their wages on something so frivolous, but it hadn't taken long for them to come to the mutual decision that for Baena, it was worth it.

Mercedes helped Oliver gently and securely tie down another paper-wrapped bundle to his horse's saddlepack. Her and Fhalz's horses were laden in a similar way, saddlepacks piled high, rifle holsters full, extra bundles hanging over necks.

"She's gonna go crazy," Oliver chuckled, knotting the twine with his large hands.

"This is seriously the best idea ever," Mercedes acknowledged. "Well done, Fhalz. Now all we have to do is wait for you to propose to her, and we can all die happy."

"Who said I want to marry her?" Fhalz objected hotly, turning red yet again. He handed over what was probably the last of their money. The clock tower chiming interrupted his next comeback.

"We should head back; she'll be leaving soon," Oliver said. "We still need to set up."

The trio carefully mounted their horses, trying not to crush their wares. Like merchants carrying nothing but clouds of color, they walked their horses back in the direction of the Trost Garrison HQ. They tried to avoid crowds and couldn't go very fast for fear of damaging the surprise. Nonetheless, a trail of dots of color, like wet paint, was left in their wake. 

* * *

Baena got back to HQ and dutifully took care of her mare, Bibi, before heading back inside, a canvas bag of goodies for her squadmates swinging on her arm. She wanted to get changed out of her finer Sina clothes and jewelry before anyone saw her. As she alternately jogged, walked, or hopped through the HQ, though she looked for them she couldn't see any sign of them, which was a little disappointing. Had they gone out without her? Had they been spontaneously called up to the Wall?

Humming to herself regardless, Baena's long legs took her up the stairs two at a time. At one point she lost a shoe and had to grab it, but didn't put it back on – she'd just be taking it off in a minute or two, after all. She noticed various kinds of flower petals and leaves on the stairs and down the hall, but didn't think much of it. She scooped a red one off the ground and tucked it in her headband.

She slowed down the dorm room hall just in case the night-shifters were sleeping, making a tune out of counting the number of doors from the stairs to her own that she shared with Mercedes. "One, two, lost my shoe," she twirled, enjoying the feeling of her knee-length skirt flaring around her, "three, four, on the floor, number five, I've arrived!" Baena pulled down on the handle and pushed the door wide.

"Surprise!" came a chorus of voices.

Baena threw up her hands out of habit too and shouted back, and then realized what she was looking at. Her generic "we're-acting-surprised" voice turned into a squeal of genuine amazement. Her hands (and shoe) flew to her cheeks.

The small bunkroom was filled with fresh flowers. The bunks and windowsill were laden with them; a garland was over the door; bunches of them on the floor surrounding Oliver, Mercedes and Fhalz. A dazzling riot of color and texture, a circus of smells. She ran inside and, bouncing up and down, hugged the three of them until they all nearly fell over.

"Oh my god you guys are amazing! Thank you!" She cooed and simpered, tears coming to her eyes. She pressed her shoe to her mouth and looked around her again gratefully. She started to cry. "You shouldn't have done this. This must have cost you a fortune!"

"It's your birthday; we wanted to do something special," Oliver said.

"It was Fhalz's idea," Mercedes added, nudging the younger boy in the ribs.

Fhalz blushed and mumbled something, clearing his voice a couple of times and averting his eyes.

Even through her tears Baena beamed and swept him into a tight hug, even managing to pick him up. "This is the best present, ever! Thank you!" Fhalz gasped for air and she finally put him down.

Like a butterfly, Baena started flitting about the room from flower to flower. As she went Fhalz watched her, and finally spoke loud enough for them to hear. "Daisies, for loyalty and patience." She moved to another bunch of orange stars. "Lilies, for purity." A puddle of red and light green. "Geraniums, for sincerity." The garland above the door with its glossy leaves and creamy, heady-scented tiny flowers. "Jasmine, for faithfulness." A scattering of pink buds like paintbrushes over the beds. "Carnations, for hope." Giant spikes of purple and lilac they'd propped up by the window. "Delphiniums, for generosity and fun." And finally a swathe of pink and red that spilled from the other bed onto the floor. "Peonies, for happiness and prosperity, and roses, for love."

Mercedes smiled to herself as she and Oliver took up the background. She leant her head on his shoulder – well, his arm – and they watched the other two.

Baena looked over at Fhalz and stood upright. She continued to smile as she said, "I didn't know you knew all that about flowers."

Fhalz cleared his throat again. "Yeah, well, I read it here and there."

"He checked out the book specifically," Mercedes couldn't help but chime in and Oliver elbowed her, hissing for her to be quiet.

The other two didn't seem to take any notice. Baena gazed around her some more, closing her eyes and breathing the scents deeply in.

"There is one more, though," Fhalz said. He went over to one of the bunks and stood on the second rung of its ladder, fishing around on the top of the bed. He procured the tall, thick stem of a sunflower, its giant face nodding at them, and held it out to her. "Sunflower, for dedication."

Baena teared up again as she took it. "Sunflowers are my favorite."

"I know," Fhalz finally smiled back, the tension disappearing from his face. After a pause, he added, "Look closer."

Baena's eyebrows quirked and the angled the flower this way and that, examining its yellow tongues and pale sepals. Then, her fingers brushed against something metal tied to its top two leaves. Shock overcame her face as she untied it. Mercedes and Oliver frowned and craned their necks to try and see without being intrusive.

"Fhalz Lathan," Baena chided in a whisper, sniffing and hiding her face with the sunflower, peering at him over the top of it. Fhalz stepped closer and to the others' chagrin, took whatever it was in her hand without them being able to see.

Then, Fhalz got down on one knee in front of her. Mercedes' arm struck Oliver violently in the stomach as if preventing him from hurtling forward.

"Baena Cullis, will you marry me?" Fhalz asked, smiling. He held up a simple gold ring.

Oliver and Mercedes clung to one another, holding their breath.

The three of them watched Baena's lovely rosy cheeks rise ever higher above the golden rim of the sunflower, crinkling her eyes. Her quick nod was almost imperceptible at first, and then rapidly strengthened until her whole upper body was practically bobbing. "Yes! A million times yes you dummy!" she yelled, laughing, the flower falling from her smile.

Mercedes and Oliver erupted into hoots and hollers of joy, jumping on one another. Baena crashed to her knees in the flower petals and grabbed Fhalz's face, kissing him hard. When they broke away, they got to their feet and the elation overtook all of them until the four of them were hugging and screaming and crying and laughing, rivaling the bouquets around them.


	6. Haste - Erwin, OC

For the letter 'H', I was given 'haste'. This is an AU 'non-canon' (AU from my personal canon with OCs, that is) and contains mature themes. Written because of a line of speculation with Wings of Wax that got a bit out of hand!  
Rating: M  
Characters: Erwin Smith, Mercedes (OC), small mention of Jean  
Genre: Pure smut. Read at your own risk!

* * *

Haste

_**noun**_ \ˈhāst\  
: speed of motion or action : quickness or eagerness that can result in mistakes

He had watched her, day after day, ever since she'd got here. At first it was in the normal course of duties, without agenda, but after a while Erwin had become conscious that there was a personal undercurrent that he didn't like. He tried to justify it – he was only noticing the similarities between Mercedes and the other members of her family that he'd met, or he was suspicious of her, or he was trying to assess how she would affect the group and where best to place her. The excuses only half-worked.

He began to see what the other new recruits from the 104th had spoken of – how strangely compelling they found her, even when she rubbed everyone the wrong way – but unlike them, he understood _why_ they felt that way. They were too young, too inexperienced, to know what it really was, and part of him wished he still was, too. Otherwise he wouldn't feel the urge to do something about it.

He stood a small ways back from the open window, keeping himself in shadow, as he watched her take down the laundry from the line outside. Her moves were quick, precise and efficient. She never seemed to stay still, which was odd, since on the battlefield she'd become notorious for waiting until the last minute, like the jaguar of the Carello family crest. In chores or downtime, she always seemed to be in a hurry. It was a wonder she managed to sleep.

How old was she, he wondered? He couldn't remember that detail from her file. Younger than him, logic dictated. Probably by several years. In the few times they'd had eye contact, though, he'd seen a maturity in her that unsettled him in more ways than one.

Her back was to him now as she folded a sheet. The hem of her rust-colored tank top had crept up past the waistband of her uniform pants, revealing a slim crescent of skin; once she was done with the sheet she tugged it back down. Erwin had seen this happen a few times, and uncomfortably realized he'd begun to look for it. As she turned back in his direction and leaned over to pick up the basket from the ground, he could see down her shirt and into the noteworthy hollow of her cleavage. A sudden unbidden image of her, bent over like that over his desk or his bed, sprang to mind. His muscles constricted a little, like a faint chastisement.

Erwin looked away. It was trouble and he knew it. As he did practically every day, now, he reminded himself that he was a commanding officer and that they were on an expedition, part of a larger mission that was vital to humanity and had no room for heinous indulgences of any nature. It fought with the other part of him that wanted there to be no ambiguity – that wanted to take the action that not even Kirstein, the one who seemed to obsess over and stare at her the most, wasn't brave or knowledgeable enough to take. The thing that would punish her for that inconvenience she caused everyone – that indiscretion, that insolence – and set her in her place.

His breathing had tried to quicken at the thought; he deliberately slowed it and went back to his maps. 

* * *

The next couple of days were…complex. Allowing himself the enjoyment of seeing that strip of skin between her shirt and waistband was one thing, but glimpsing Mercedes' cleavage and the image that'd come to mind thereafter – that was something else. He began to look for signs among the other men – and even the women too, if he was frank – of them thinking or imagining the same things; he began to listen for inappropriate comments about her under some pretense to himself that he'd chastise the speaker rather than privately agree. He became protective of his burgeoning obsession – was it an obsession? Yes, he supposed it technically was, now – as if no one else could be allowed to have it.

Though he tried to rein himself in, he kept giving himself allowances. First it was allowing himself to re-imagine her cleavage; that progressed to allowing himself to admire the way her hips rocked as she sat astride her horse, and so on. Each time he allowed a thought, it made the way for more, like levees breaking alongside a swollen river. It was around the time that, standing half-asleep in the shower after a long day of riding and killing, he fantasized about the things he would want that pretty mouth of hers to do to him that he realized there was no going back.

Oddly enough, the overriding emotions were anger and indignity. It drove him to distraction, and he knew he would have to take care of it – for better or worse – sooner rather than later. 

* * *

Erwin had fooled himself with doubt that entire day. Although he'd planned out the conversation and even how he would sit or what he would do, he tried to make peace with his conscience with one last consolation that maybe, just maybe, nothing would happen, and he could confine all of this to an awkward memory.

However, as soon as Mercedes came into his office that evening after dinner and shut the door behind her, all doubt went out the window. He knew, with an odd sort of heaviness in his heart, that he was going to fuck her. That resignation, if nothing else, proved his point – she had that power to reduce a man's morals and sanity to nothing more than scratches on paper, without lifting a finger or even realizing she was doing it – and he hated her for that.

"You asked to see me, Sir?" she prompted.

"At ease," he said, standing up behind his desk. Now that she was here, and they were alone and the others distracted in various ways, all his careful plans of conversation seemed to dissolve and he had no idea how to get from A to B. "I did, yes," he said stupidly.

Erwin used the motion of coming out from behind his desk, placing his hands behind his back and walking over to the window to collect his thoughts. The yard below was dark, quiet and empty.

"You've done well since you've been here," he began.

"Thank you, Sir."

"However, I stumbled upon something that I feel could use a little improvement." He turned around and saw her quickly hide her confusion. The fire to his left cast interesting shadows over her, defining and blurring her in wonderful ways.

"And that is?"

That slight note of insubordination in her voice – he hated it and loved it. It reminded him of all the things he'd allowed himself to think about her, and of the truths he knew.

_What a fine line there is between hate and envy, and admiration and hunger,_ he thought, and couldn't help but smirk to himself. He saw her catch this, though she didn't comment. He wandered back, around the desk to stand near her, this time. "You're not very good at being off the hunt, are you?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, the fullness of her lips turned down in a slight, defensive frown.

"You're very good at taking things slow on the battlefield," he clarified, "but not so much when you're meant to be relaxing."

"I don't understand why this is a matter of concern, and most of all for you," she said.

Erwin took a deep breath – it was time. "Because I happen to be one who can help." As he closed the distance between them his hands removed themselves from behind his back. They took hold of her face and she flinched. He silenced her with a gentle, "Ssh, don't," and gripped harder.

Mercedes brought her eyes back up to his and he realized how easy it was to get lost in their seemingly endless depths. It only served to fuel his anger and his hunger even more.

When he was certain she wasn't going to resist, or run from the room, he released his hold and rid her of her uniform jacket, and then piece by piece, methodically began to unfasten each part of her harness as he explained, "I can teach you the pleasures to be found in taking things slowly." One part, then two, of the straps were dropped on the floor. Her eyes lowered and her face took on an interestingly neutral expression, like she was trying to hide something from him. "I know why the others admire but also hate you," he said quietly. "They have all these awkward, conflicting feelings and don't know what to do about them. They don't realize that what they're feeling is something much messier." The harness dropped in its entirety and he unfastened her belt and uniform pants, shoving them down, and then gripping that confounding tank top in both hands and ripping it – despite the violence of the action, she still remained motionless. "They're not sure whether they want to fuck you or take their anger and envy out on you – they just don't realize those are the names for what they feel."

Almost obediently, Mercedes stepped out of her pushed-down pants and boots. Her voice was low as she said, "Is that so." Her eyes seemed to cast about the clothes scattered around her. The firelight glimmered off her exposed skin. "And this is your solution?"

Anger and lust, repressed for what seemed like an ungodly amount of years, flared inside Erwin. He grabbed her arm and jerked her around him, pushing her back against the desk. Though she continued to stay still and unyielding, as he pressed his body against hers to peer down into her face he could also see the way the thin skin at her clavicle quivered with the rapid beat of her heart. The feel of her breasts pressed against his chest made his groin stir.

"In part," he finally answered. "I'm merely doing what they wish they could."

She looked directly at him, then. "Abusing power?" Something sparkled in her gaze – or was it just a trick of the fire?

He ran one hand down her hip and grabbed a handful of surprisingly womanly thigh. A smile twisted his lips. "It's not an abuse of power if the other party is willing." Again, that unnamed thing dancing in her eyes – what was she thinking?

Erwin spun Mercedes around, but despite his urges resisted diving straight into his fantasy and did not sprawl her on her front across his papers and missives just yet. Like it was muscle-memory he unfastened her combat bra and cast it aside; with one hand he took hold of one of her large breasts and with the other, snaked up her throat and tipped her head back, fingers digging into her jaw and his thumb pressing along her lips until they parted ever so slightly. He placed his mouth at her ear and pushed his body against hers so she could feel how hard he was growing. He moved his hips a little as he massaged her breast.

"See? It's not so bad," he said. "You just need to learn to enjoy every…little…moment." He watched one of her hands rise from the desk and hover in the air, reluctant to take hold of his own hand. He did, however, feel the slightest touch of her tongue on his thumb and he smiled wider, relishing the shiver that ran down his spine. "That's it," he coaxed in a whisper. He ran his thumb across her lips, and listened to her deepening, quickening breathing. He kissed her ear, trailing another and then another down her neck – he could see the goosebumps erupt over her chest.

He leant upright and kissed her, then, and at first her mouth would not open for him. It took his other hand taking hold of her second breast for her to yield, and he drank her in, his massaging slow and insistent. He broke away when he detected the rigidity of her jaw, indicating she was beginning to get lost. He returned his mouth to her ear, continuing to whisper, "That's it. You like this, don't you?" One hand experimented and pulled at a nipple, eliciting a quiet groan. He repeated the move, this time with both hands. "I can show you so much more."

"No," he heard Mercedes whisper. Her hand finally made its way to his and it hung there half-heartedly.

Yet again he turned her around. "I think that's a lie," he growled. This time he picked her up slightly and sat her on the desk, pushing her onto her back and, against his better judgment, climbing up to straddle her. He kissed her again, this time her mouth not resisting at all. When his knee attempted to part her legs she broke away and again muttered 'no'. The sound made him worse and somewhere in his soul, he was ashamed that it did. Pinning one of her wrists beside her head while propping himself up with one hand, with his other he pushed between her pubic mound and underwear, his fingers meeting the beginnings of a warm slickness. As he caressed her he felt her body stiffen.

"No," she said again, her eyes fluttering open but barely seeing.

His fingers continued their work and she responded with a halted moan and a simper. His voice was taunting as he asked, "Don't tell me you're saving yourself for Jean or some other boy?" he emphasized the final word.

In an instant the fire was back in her eyes; she raised her head a little and focused on him. Erwin was surprised to see the anger he felt present in her face and while alarming and confusing, it was also an encouragement in of itself. Mercedes surprised him further by violently grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling his mouth to hers, while her other hand worked at his belt. Her vigor only excited his own, though he couldn't find a reason for the sudden change.

It was something of a vicious blur, after that, with both of them pulling and clawing and biting at the other, sticky with sweat and other fluids, their hips striking at one another, all manner of anger and indignity and lust in their eyes. Erwin wasn't sure who exactly was fucking who, after a while. His meticulously-ordered and drawn papers were smudged, crumpled and torn under their bodies; his half-full teacup and desk lamp had been pushed and crashed to the floor, but if someone had knocked or even entered in concern, they certainly wouldn't have noticed. They spent their vengeance or whatever it was on each other until they burned themselves out, their bodies aching and bruised, their palms and thighs raw, and their mouths dry.

Mercedes was the first to compose herself. She had pulled on her pants and bra and gathered the rest of her things and, without a word but with a short yet confident glance that suggested satisfaction – and not of the sexual kind – she had slipped out of the room and shut the door behind her. Erwin had stared at the door for a long moment before getting dressed himself. As he trudged over to the chair next to the neglected fire, he had the inexplicable, distinct feeling that somehow, he had been the one used.

He sat down with a sigh and, shortly thereafter, a smile.


	7. Clarity - Hanji, OC

For the letter 'C', I was given the word 'clarity'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: Hanji Zoe, Mercedes (OC), mentions of Moblit  
Genre: General, 'Backstory'

* * *

Clarity

_**noun**_** clar·i·ty \ˈkler-ə-tē, ˈkla-rə-\  
**: the quality of being easily understood : the quality of being expressed, remembered, understood, etc., in a very exact way : the quality of being easily seen or heard

Squad Leader Hanji had woken Mercedes in the dead of night, and excitedly insisted that she gear up and saddle up. Mercedes had groaned but succumbed to her fate – after all, she was meant to be Hanji's understudy. The two of them had ridden away from the chalet alone, and despite Mercedes' attempts to ascertain where they were going or why, she'd only received an arm waving back at her or a 'you'll see' in reply.

As they'd taken a gentle canter through the Forest of Giant Trees, Mercedes found herself thinking of Moblit, Hanji's assistant. She hoped the fact that he wasn't here, for whatever reason, wasn't a sign of the awkward wedge between them being driven deeper. Although the nervous yet clearly devoted young man had still been present and helpful, she had noticed that ever since her arrival he had taken a backseat in Hanji's favor. It hadn't been Mercedes' intention to push him out of the way or take his place, but Hanji liked new toys and she so happened to be the newest – it was the only reason she could think that Hanji would want her company more – in no way did she consider herself any smarter or more insightful than the veteran Deputy Squad Leader. He also hadn't done anything to deserve her disdain.

An excited noise from Hanji brought Mercedes' attention front and center again, a hand instinctively shooting to its stowed blade at her hip. She sighed as she realized there was no danger, only the approaching edge of the forest pronounced by a thinning of the trees and undergrowth and the promise of more light from the moon.

"Hanji-san," Mercedes forced herself to add the suffix of respect, "Please. Where are we going and what are we doing and should we really be by ourselves?"

"Oh stop worrying," Hanji chided. "You sound like Moblit. We're almost there."

"I wouldn't call it 'worrying'…"

"I thought you might appreciate this," Hanji continued cheerily as if she hadn't been interrupted.

The road – such as it was in a forest this far out from Wall Rose – petered out into a mere draft, like one of Moblit's sketches, as the forest came to an end. Their horses slowed to a trot and finally stopped altogether, and Mercedes felt the strange but pleasant sensation of the moonlight washing over her face in a half-perceived cool tingle that, unlike sunlight, seemed to wake something up inside her skin rather than press something into it. In front of them stretched the plains the convoy had come in from, its grasses and low shrubs here and there shivering under the clear sky patterned with stars.

However, Mercedes' eyes couldn't help but pin their gaze to the subjects of the midground – the Titans. Idle with the night, she watched the handful of them wander around one another, taking a few slow steps at a time, collapsing to their knees and rising, repeating the process as if sleepwalking.

_Of course,_ Mercedes thought. Why would they be here to see the beauty? – she glanced over at Hanji; the other woman's face had a less than encouraging grin plastered over it – they were here to see what tainted it.

She sighed again. "So we're here to study them."

"In part." For the first time since the ride began, Hanji looked at her directly. The moonlight caused her chestnut hair to appear as a muted purple. "I was hoping we could gather clues about why their activity dies down at night. I didn't get as much of an opportunity as I would have liked with Sonny and Bean before they were…well," her gaze lowered.

Mercedes didn't let herself get sucked into the sympathy boat. The practical implications – lowered activity or not – wouldn't be ignored. "Surely we should have brought others with us if we were going to try to capture one?"

Hanji sat upright and shook her head. "Oh no, I don't think that'll be necessary." She jabbed her heels into her horse's ribs and continued forward at a slow walk. "Come on!"

Mercedes' brow couldn't help but knit. She followed her superior into the chill of the exposed land. Had Hanji finally cracked? Was this some sort of suicide? She eyed the nearest Titans – a couple of three-meter classes – for any sign of lashing out, even though the smaller ones of their ilk usually seemed to be the ones most affected by the arrival of night. They sat or slumped like huge, discarded dolls, digging their fingers into the earth or flopping their heads to one side to stare up at the sky, hardly seeming to notice the approach of the two humans on horseback.

Taking her anxious thread of a theory into account, Mercedes asked, "Hanji-san, why isn't Moblit here?"

"I gave him the night off!" She brought her horse right beside the sitting three-meter, "Hey, what do you suppose it's looking at?" she asked, leaning over to peer at its uplifted face. Strangely, it didn't react to her, though Mercedes flinched when Hanji reached out and placed a hand on its shoulder, propping herself up as she twisted her body to trace its line of sight.

Mercedes swallowed, drawing a blade and rapidly looking around her at the other Titans – what was maybe a five-meter was the next nearest, to their right, while wandering their direction was a four-meter and a seven-meter, though none of them looked their way. She was fairly certain they were the same ones that had pursued them on the way in. Despite herself she wondered if they could recognize them, before that thought was overtaken by the instinct to strike them all down.

"Moblit should be here, sketching this," Mercedes mumbled. She looked back in alarm as she heard Hanji dismounting. "Hanji!" she hissed. "That's not a good idea!"

"Bullshit, I have good ideas all the time." Hanji cautiously approached the doll-like Titan; it continued to stare at the sky, its mouth lolling open. The brunette kept her eyes on its face as she reached out and took one of its dirty fingers in both her hands and lifted its hand a little.

Mercedes' eyes widened in horror but she was afraid to yell in case it broke the Titan's trance.

Hanji smiled. "It's like we're shaking hands," she said, and wobbled the pudgy, bloodstained hand; Mercedes watched the vibrations travel up its arm and into its neck, shivering the straggly dark hair plastered to its head. She drew her other blade when the head rolled on its shoulders, seeming to swing in Hanji's direction, but it merely slumped forward over its legs as if baring its nape to them. "Ho ho, a little drunk on starlight, are we? It's like that time Mike came back from –" Hanji chuckled, patting its arm.

"Hanji," Mercedes hissed again, checking the positions of the other Titans.

"My name's Zoe," Hanji suddenly said. She took careful steps around the Titan, examining it. "And despite my assumptions of your assumptions, this is the only time I can think clearly – when I'm doing stuff like this, or at night. Perfect combination."

Mercedes frowned, searching for something to say. As Hanji's horse wandered near to her, she took the precaution of grabbing its reins on Hanji's behalf.

"Much as I love Moblit, his nervous energy can cloud things sometimes," Hanji continued, lifting up some of the Titan's hair to scrutinize its ear. "You, not so much. You're more composed. You give less of a shit."

Mercedes certainly didn't feel composed; she checked the other Titans but they were still idle and not looking their way, oddly. Under her, Sabine readjusted her footing and snorted. "Why does this help you think?" she asked. It seemed equally odd – like the Titans embodied how Hanji's brain worked.

"I guess it's kinda like how you retreat to something you found comforting as a child when you're under pressure," Hanji shrugged. She moved down the Titan's sprawled leg to take a look at its foot. "For me, that's figuring out the things no one else wants to contemplate."

Mercedes tried to wrap her head around the concept; around how this explanation could have applied to Zoe Hanji as a child, but it was difficult – was she ever truly a child, even? To keep her line of attack open and to better see and guard her superior, Mercedes brought the horses around to the other side of the Titan. "So you…wanted to do this when you were younger?" she tried.

"Oh hell no," Hanji replied happily. She flicked one of the Titan's toenails. "No, not back then. Believe it or not I was a fairly normal kid."

_Besides being dropped on your head, maybe, _Mercedes thought. "So what happened, then?"

"One day, we were out on expedition," Hanji began, and her voice grew soft and measured, even as she clambered onto the Titan's legs and pushed its head back, "I remember it was a bitterly cold day. Coldest it'd been for years. I came down to finish off someone else's kill." She paused, looking into the Titan's face as it panted hot breath into her own and bared its teeth, but otherwise didn't move. "And I remember it looking at me, directly in the eye – something was different about it – and it was like it understood. It even raised its arm, a little, like it was trying to defend itself for just a second." She reached forward and pulled at one of the Titan's eyelids, and though it gurgled a little it didn't retaliate. Hanji pushed her face ridiculously close to its eyeball, to the point that Mercedes couldn't make out much of its dinnerplate-sized whites. "I killed it anyway," Hanji uttered wistfully, "but I didn't forget that. It felt like the world opened up for me. Before, there wasn't much difference between me and a hired mercenary. Simple as that might sound, it was actually torture for me. I was the kind of kid who liked structure and answers." She let go of the Titan's eyelid and head, and as she backed up the Titan practically fell over on its side into the grass, its feet and hands twitching. "I didn't know what my purpose was until that day. It'd always seemed like my brain and my love for research and science would never get the legroom they needed, but I was wrong. That clarity…that's an amazing thing," she looked up at Mercedes and smiled.

Mercedes tried to return it.

"I hope you find that someday," Hanji said, and took her reins from her.


	8. Reflection - Jean, OC

For the letter 'R', I was given the word 'reflection'.  
Rating: K+  
Characters: Jean, Mercedes (OC)  
Genre: General, 'Visions of the Future', Character Vignette

* * *

Reflection

_**noun  
**_**re·flec·tion****\ri-****ˈ****flek-shən\  
**: an image that is seen in a mirror or on a shiny surface : something that shows the effect, existence, or character of something else : something that causes people to disapprove of a person or thing

**(Age 16)**

Jean glanced up into the mirror and was suddenly arrested by his reflection. Although the last year of being in training had seriously diminished his vanity, it was still a shock to see the slightly swollen bruise on his left brow, the freckle-like scrape on his right cheek and the cut on his upper lip. His hair was greasy from the sweat of the run earlier, and more of it made the rims of his eyelids glisten.

"Dang you're a mess," he said. He wiped the crud out of the corner of his eyes and played with a tooth he was sure was loose after Eren's punch the other night.

Once done, he made a few faces at himself, feeling the skin of corners of his mouth crack. He practiced his smile – after all, you never knew when you'd have to impress a girl and you should have at least one thing going for you.

Jean found his smile slowly dying. _At least one thing going for you,_ he thought. Uncharacteristically, he felt a bitterness like a spike in his gut_. Is a smile all you've got to give?_ He blinked at himself, and braced himself on the sink, peering closer into the amber of his eyes – dark today, like honey – as if the answer was in them.

He knew he was good at a few things – using the maneuvering gear, taking initiative…he had his fair share of smarts – but it didn't seem like enough. How could he expect to contribute to the cause if he didn't stand out in any way? He didn't want to be just another average guy waiting to be a corpse paving the road for greater men. But what else was he supposed to do?

_I have to get better. Even Eren is improving, making a name for himself – well, we all are, but… What am I going to be known for? I don't want to be remembered as the guy Eren always punched, or the obnoxious one, or the one with a long face like a horse._

Jean frowned. It was odd to think it, but he couldn't help but be frustrated at how much of a child he still saw in himself. He hadn't noticed until now. He forced his forehead to un-crease and his eyebrows to rise back into neutrality, and for his scowl to ease. He tried to look past the surface, and see what he might become. He thought he could catch a glimpse on his periphery, but in looking at it directly, it was gone.

* * *

**(Age 26)**

Like ten years ago, Jean caught his reflection and froze. Only this time, instead of one of the tiny bathrooms of the trainee barracks, it was his own, in his own home. He was on his way out to meet the carriage that would take him to the Interior.

His eyes were lighter today; like wheat, Mercedes had told him. Ironically he'd been told they'd grown harder, which wasn't surprising. He was beginning to get crows' feet from squinting into the sun on the dozens of expeditions he'd ridden, and aptly his face had taken on more color. The scowling he'd tried so hard to temper had caused wrinkles – two across his forehead and one between his eyebrows – to appear already. His hair was longer, even though he still kept it cut short underneath and at the sides; a piece of it covered his temple and reached down to the shadow of a thin blade-scar reaching down from his left cheekbone to his jaw, almost vanishing in the deepened hollow of his cheek. How many times had 'Cee kissed it, now, like it was for luck?

Jean adjusted the Scouting Legion cloak across his broad shoulders. As he often did before making even remotely public appearances, he wondered if everything he'd seen, been through, done, could be seen on his face. It was funny – in his trainee days that was exactly what he'd wanted. And now, it was something he wanted to avoid. He made a mental note to convince 'Cee to take the mirror down.

"Ready?" came her comforting hum from the front door. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just remembering a kid I used to know."

"Come on, Captain," she chided. "My Queen and the Commander won't like being kept waiting, even for you."

Jean turned from the mirror and followed her. As she paused to open their front door, he reached out and picked up her braid, kissing its tail for luck.


	9. Warmth - Jean, OC

For the letter 'W', I was given 'warmth'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: Jean, Mercedes (OC), Eren and Mikasa briefly  
Genre: General

* * *

Warmth

_**noun**_**\****ˈ****w****ȯ****rm(p)th\  
**: the quality or state of being warm in temperature : the quality or state of being kind or friendly

_(Takes place during the events of The Jaguar, in the five weeks between Jean rescuing Mercedes and the Scouting Legion's return to Wall Rose.)_

It'd been four weeks since Jean had brought Mercedes back from the road. She'd only been recently allowed to go back to the bare minimum of duties – with restrictions on what she could lift and so on – but still hadn't been allowed back on patrol. As he returned from one of his own, he spotted her outside the stables with what looked like a large shard of mirror propped against a stray rock in front of her. She had a knife raised to the right side of her head and was trimming the area she'd cut so long ago.

Jean dismounted and began to lead his horse to the stables. As he passed her neither spoke to the other, but subconsciously Jean's hand went to his own undercut, like scratching at a phantom itch. Their relationship had improved ever since the road, to the point that the other's company was no longer intolerable or cause for irritation, but conversation was still sketchy at best. It was as though they were having to start from the beginning.

She was still there when he left the stables after taking care of his horse, slowly and methodically tidying up her bizarre hairstyle with the help of the mirror. He caught her looking at him in it, and her gaze flickered away as quickly as the sun glinting off the knife. Jean paused next to her; she said nothing.

"Why do you still keep your hair like that?" he asked, but more quietly than he would have a few months ago. Even if he couldn't help but still be slightly bullish and accusing, he was at least starting to respect her privacy a bit more and keep their unexpected connection quiet.

"So I don't forget," she said in an equally low tone. For her part, she seemed to be mirroring his attempts and also didn't make an exhibition about their growing half-friendship, if you could call it that.

"That's it?"

"I also kinda like it," she mused, dipping her head forward and a little to the left to better see a portion of her scalp farther back. "Is that a crime?"

"Well, no…"

"Why do you keep yours cut like that?"

"I just do, okay?"

Mercedes shrugged and continued to work at her hair. Jean watched her take a piece that'd become a couple of inches long, pinch it between her fingers and hold it taught, and pare an inch off with the small but sharp knife. He wondered why she didn't hunt down some scissors but had to admit her proficiency with the knife to be mesmerizing.

Again his hand rose to his own hair, running through the scraggly bits that had sprouted at the nape of his neck. Again he caught her eyeing him in the mirror. The slightest movement of her cheek indicated a suppressed smirk.

He huffed in exasperation, glancing around them. The yard was mostly empty apart from Reiner and Bertholt chopping wood in the distance. "Hey, would you – would you mind…"

Mercedes smiled more fully and didn't embarrass him with a response. She placed the knife in the grass and dusted shreds of dark hair off her white uniform pants, carefully getting to her feet. She paused and held her still-healing ribs for a moment, and then walked to the stables. Before he could offer help she was dragging over an empty crate. She plucked the knife from the ground and sat down.

She nodded at the grass in front of her legs. "Come sit."

Trying to remain casual, Jean took off his gear and cloak and set them down, and then gingerly sat in front of her. His muscles, like they were full of old memories, tried not to balk at the situation he'd put himself in. His eyes looked around nervously and he kept his head lowered, still afraid someone would see them and tease him, even though he realized that if he'd been afraid of that, he should have thought about the fact that they were just outside the main entrance to the chalet.

He was distracted by Mercedes sitting forward on the edge of the crate and setting her feet apart; her left knee slid past his left shoulder while her right dipped lower, nudging his right side. With both hands she tugged at his skull so that he would look straight ahead. "Stay still," she instructed.

Though she wasn't using it, in the mirror shard he could see her hold the knife horizontal at the back of his neck, and the pull of her taking some of his hair between her fingers. Her braid slipped over her shoulder and she irritably pushed it back. He felt the cool, crisp edge of the knife scrape at his skin, and the prickle of trimmed hair tumbling away.

Old feelings of suspicion – that she was in a prime position to slit his throat or ram the knife into the base of his skull – were overlaid by the warmth he felt seeping through the sleeve of his shirt from her thigh. She was unblinking as she worked and in the mirror, every time the sun glinted off the knife into her eyes she didn't flinch, but the light briefly danced there.

He let his worries subside into a kind of rest, lulled by the rhythm of her making her way from one side of his head to the other, bottom to top. Every so often her fingertips would brush at his neck and collar, or she would lean close and blow the trimmings away; her warm breath would tickle his ear in a not so unpleasant way. Their surroundings faded except for the evening sun beating down on them and the grass under his hands. The world became nothing but her brief, deft touches, her breath, and the blade.

"There, done," she said all too soon. "Better?" He felt her lean back and heard the knife be laid on the crate.

Coming back to reality, Jean leaned forward and grabbed the mirror shard, angling his head to see as best he could. "Yeah, thanks."

"Oh look! You both match!"

Jean's head snapped around and spotted Eren passing by with Mikasa. "Shut up!"


	10. Unforgiving - OCs

For the letter 'U', I was given 'unforgiving'.  
Rating: M  
Characters: (OCs) Julia, Esteban, Mercedes  
Genre: 'Backstory', Family, Tragedy

* * *

**Unforgiving**

**_adjective_ un·for·giv·ing \ˌən-fər-ˈgi-viŋ\  
**: not willing to forgive other people : very harsh or difficult : not allowing weakness, error, etc.

**(Year 804)**

Julia Carello watched her husband hand over her rifle plans to the Aide, who scurried the two meters to the desk of his superior. The three trial models they had already constructed lay on that desk, and Julia felt anxious for them – they'd become like surrogate children to her over the past couple of years. A squirm in her belly followed by a sharp kick to the ribs reminded her that she was pregnant with an actual human child, her sixth in fact, of her own flesh and blood, and that they'd better offer her a chair soon.

However, the Court surrounding them in the throne room bore expressions as icy as the snow flurries she could see outside through the tall windows. She'd been expecting more excitement, more gratitude and wonder. Instead she saw intrigue of a fearful kind, and watched the nervous glances with concern. Wasn't this something to celebrate? She'd just solved one of their biggest problems – the efficiency of their firearms. She'd just handed over the means to make their shots and reload time much faster, and they were looking at her as if she'd handed over a rude drawing of the King. It was only the calming presence of Esteban beside her that stopped her from calling them out.

"These plans seem sound," the gray-haired official behind the desk acknowledged as he looked them over. "You have a brilliant mind for engineering for one so young, and for a woman."

Julia changed her mind at that point. She certainly didn't want them to offer her a chair now. She hid the strain she felt on her back and steeled herself, kept biting her tongue. When she looked up again, another court official had risen from his seat and was walking forward to pluck one of the rifles from the table.

The official, a man of average height with a pot belly and a receding hairline for his ridiculous mop of dirty-blond hair, pulled back the latch on the stock, loaded two of the provided bullets, closed the breech. He shouldered it, sighted along it, lowered it, tossed it strangely idly in one hand as if to test its weight. Nervously, Julia could easily see this was not a practiced marksman. There'd been no plans for a test firing, at least not indoors. She could feel Esteban tense beside her, and like the shifting of a mountain felt his broad, tall body inch forward as if to step in front of her – her hand rose and gently gripped his wrist through his uniform jacket. Their child, as though sensing him too, squirmed toward him, rocking her a little.

The shot was the clearest thing she'd ever heard in her life – clearer, even, than the first cries of her sons as she brought them into the world. It was clearer than the pain searing its way through her left hip and abdomen, ripping up into her heart.

Julia was catapulted backwards to the marble floor and Esteban fell with her, screaming. Her hands were too afraid to touch the mess that was her side, but his were there, slipping and pressing as he tried to staunch the hot blood that sprang from her. He was calling her name. She noticed, distantly, that she did not hear any scraping chairs or pounding feet. She could just about see the King – he hadn't moved – his head still rested on his hand, as if the entire thing continued to bore him.

Esteban's growl rumbled in his chest and Julia could feel his muscles growing rigid. He made to charge at the official but Julia used what little strength she had in her shaking arms to hold him back. "Este, no. It…it won't do anything."

His vivid blue eyes looked down into hers, the anger softening into helplessness. He was crying.

"Consider this as a warning," the blond, ragdoll-like official said as he came to stand over them. He hefted the rifle across his shoulders behind his neck. "If we find out that you continue to produce such machinations that endanger our King, your lives – and those of your sons – will not be spared."

Julia was fairly certain he said something else, but her entire body was beginning to convulse. Contractions had started. Combined with her anger at the official's preposterous words, her alarm quickened her breathing and reminded her that she was in pain.

She grabbed again at Esteban's jacket. "Este – the baby. The baby's coming."

He looked mortified. "The – no! No, it's – it's too –"

"Get them out of here."

Julia finally made eye contact with the unsympathetic gaze of the man who'd shot her. His eyes were milky, almost, as if his irises couldn't make up their mind what color they wanted to be. Esteban was trying to picking her up as guards rushed forward, grabbing at them, but even through the relentless flashes of pain and the blood pouring out of her, she hauled herself to her feet. In the process, her water broke, and she felt it begin to stream down her legs and puddle on the already-slick floor. Heedless, she threw herself forward, a fist raised, and punched the stupid ragdoll of a man squarely on the jaw, enough to make him stumble and nearly drop her rifle.

"Este, my darling," her voice undulated with her contractions, but remained strong. "I wish to stay." She was going to give birth on the goddamn throne room floor and there was nothing they could do to stop her.

"Then we'll stay, my love."

Julia smiled faintly. He'd understood.

Behind her, she heard Esteban struggling with the guards. The others probably thought she was crazy, because no one approached. She glanced only once around her at the horrified faces as she fell to her knees, the contractions increasing and quickening. Her entire body ached, but it was mostly with a strange intuition that her child was already dead.

She wanted them to see. She wanted them to know what their words had done, and would continue to do to every generation that followed hers. She wouldn't allow them to pretend it didn't exist; that their actions would have no consequence. She would have no mercy.

* * *

**(Year 831)**

Julia opened the door to the nursery at their ranch, and found the impressive bulk of her husband reclined in the rocking chair he'd made himself for this exact purpose – he held their tiny granddaughter, Mercedes, in his arms. The weak evening sunlight made the salt-and-pepper streaks in his hair gleam like gold thread, but to her, it was nearly thirty years ago still – it was what should have been.

"You should let her rest," she said quietly as she limped into the coral-colored room.

"What do you think she's doing?" Esteban chided. "She gets her best sleep with her papa." He smiled down at the red-swaddled dumpling of an infant.

Julia stood beside him. She couldn't help but briefly think of her own daughter, killed before she was born in the throne room at Mitras, and still felt that cold hard bullet of hate and mercilessness that had filled her that day as she held her up before the Court, screaming at them. Forgiveness would never truly be found but, here at least there was a seed of hope.

She reached out a hand and brushed at the full head of dark hair, smiled and cooed at the rosebud of her little lips. "Our little lady of mercies, hm. Your granna is so glad you're here."


	11. Yearn - Armin, Annie

For the letter 'Y', I was given the word 'yearn'.  
Rating: K  
Characters: Armin, Annie  
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Romance

* * *

**Yearn**

_verb_ \ˈyərn\  
: to feel a strong desire or wish _for_ something or _to do_ something

He probably shouldn't be down here, he knew. Not because it was forbidden, exactly, and not because of his lack of true reason if asked. Rather, he knew he shouldn't be down here because it wasn't healthy for him to dwell on things outside of his control.

Armin stood in front of the crystal that held Annie Leonhart; he had a hard time accepting that she had formed it around herself, instead preferring to think of it as having formed itself around her. Even now, a year after Eren had defeated her Titan form and they had dragged her down here into this underground sanctum, he had trouble accepting what he had seen. He'd always considered himself to be someone who relied on facts, on things he could see with his own two eyes; who prided himself on a lack of bias and a willingness to accept ugly truths.

_I could never think of you as an ugly truth,_ Armin thought. He stepped to one side every so slightly, so that he could better see Annie's face through the hastily-formed facets of the crystal. Although the ever-lit torches in the room made its outer layers glimmer, catching the warm light until it had a glow the color of champagne, they didn't seem to be able to change the icy blue center surrounding Annie. The same color as her eyes, he remembered.

"What were you fighting for, Annie?" he asked, as he asked the other two times he'd come here alone and the hundreds of other times he had laid awake at night, remembering her standing there at the entrance to the underground tunnel or speaking lowly to him in the alley, offering to help.

Although her expression seemed peaceful, he knew the truth. It was an expression of refusal, of distance. Even now, she had still managed to pull away from all of them. They hadn't known her then and they wouldn't know her now.

"If only you had let us in. Even if it was just one of us. Despite what you said, you were our friend. Maybe it wouldn't have come to this," he whispered. "There must have been something you wanted – something that drove you to do those things. This couldn't have been what you dreamed of and yearned for."

Of course she didn't react. Of course her eyelids didn't flicker, or open. It was a silly thought.

Armin trailed a finger over one edge of the crystal, and it came away dusty. Frowning, he slowly and gently used the hem of his cloak to wipe the surface down, going more tenderly over the spots that led him over her neck and face, as if she could feel it.

'_As if she could feel'… They always joked about that. But you could feel, couldn't you? You did care. Maybe too much._ He finished, and dropped the hem of his cloak. _You wanted it to stop – so you sacrificed your own dreams in order to shut it all out._

Armin wiped his hair back from his forehead, holding his hand there for a long moment as his eyes stung. He wanted her to move. He wanted her to come back.

"How can you dream in there? Dreams are made of the waking world…" he choked. His hand fell and he rubbed at his eye with a knuckle. "You're meant to be with us, pursuing them – not becoming one yourself."

He braced himself with one arm on the crystal, as if using Annie's shoulder for support. This was what he was afraid of and had wanted to avoid – his emotions getting the better of him. It wasn't healthy. It always led to this spiral of 'what-ifs' and 'should-haves', a bitter tincture of feelings recognized too late. Logically he knew these visits served no purpose other than self-torture, like some weak gesture by way of atonement. And for what? What else could he have done to divert the course of events? For whom? Annie? Himself? The government? And how? What could he possibly do for anyone to make amends for something so large and so outside of his control?

"I guess…I guess it'll be up to me," he whispered. "I'll have to dream for you. Maybe we yearn for the same thing."

He looked one more time at the icy blue of the crystal. The same color as her eyes. Except, he'd never thought of them as ice – more like water; the ocean he hoped one day to see.


	12. Kindness - Jean, Mrs Kirstein, OC

For the letter 'K', I was given 'kindness'.  
Rating: T (for language)  
Characters: Jean, his mother, Mercedes (OC)  
Genre: Family

* * *

**Kindness**

_**noun**_**kind·ness****\****ˈ****kīn(d)-nəs\  
**: the quality or state of being kind : a kind act

_(Set during the events of The Jaguar, likely a couple of days after he meets her grandmother for the first time.)_

Jean was reluctant to slow his walk, or even cross the street. He wanted to walk them right past his house, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. He could feel Mercedes' eyes on him.

"You all right?" she asked.

_Come on, just get it over with,_ he thought. "Yeah, fine." He crept to a stop, almost cringing, directly opposite his house, and waiting for traffic to pass. In fact, he kept waiting, trying to hold off the inevitable – he could already hear his mother embarrassing him.

"We could have crossed the street five times by now, Jean," Mercedes prompted with humor in her voice. After a pause she tipped her head at it and said, "Is that your house?" He glanced at her and saw her smile.

"Maybe," he grumbled.

He let her grab his arm and march him across the street to the humble cottage wedged between two slightly taller buildings, its new thatch bright in the sunshine and smoke rising from its chimney, waving to them. Only when they were about to step into the front garden did he revolt, squirming in her grip and bringing them to a halt.

"What is wrong with you?" Mercedes hissed. "You've met my grandmother, who's practically my mother. Why are you so touchy about me meeting yours?"

"I do and I don't!" he blurted, and immediately regretted it. It wasn't like they were at the point in their friendship or relationship or whatever the fuck it was lately to want her to meet his mother. That…that was supposed to be reserved. And yet…

"If you don't introduce me I'm just going to walk in and introduce myself," she continued.

He pinched his nose and growled. "You don't understand."

"You're damn right I don't."

He wrung his hands. "It's just – she's going to be all clingy and ask all these questions –"

Mercedes put her hands on her hips, blinking rapidly a few times. "You mean be a mother?" She sighed and turned to walk up the flagstone path through the cheery stalks of the lupins.

Jean practically flung himself at her with a desperate, "No!" and latched onto her, pulling at her dress like a rowdy child. Appropriately, she reeled at him, pushing at his face with one hand and swatting at his arms with her other.

"I did not walk all this way just to –"

"Won't you come in?"

Jean looked up at his mother's warm, hesitant voice; she stood smiling at them in the door he hadn't noticed open; she looked strangely excited in a way he hadn't seen before – it wasn't the usual excitement at seeing him. She was hurriedly wiping floury hands with her apron and glancing somewhat happy-nervously at Mercedes. He and Mercedes stood apart, straightening their clothes, and his mother took it as her cue to rush forward and wrap him in a heavy, tight embrace.

"My boy, my lovely boy, you're home."

"Mom –"

"And you came to see your mama…" she cooed. "You must come inside and tell me everything!"

"Mom we'll come inside if you let us come inside," he said. He averted his eyes from Mercedes' wide eyes and amused smirk.

"Oh, you're right," she chuckled, releasing him and wiping back her mousy brown hair from her face. As he walked past her she wiped at scraps of dough she'd inadvertently left on his sleeve and he recoiled in response.

The familiar, short hall opened up to welcome him, sunlight from behind them streaming through the open door to warm his feet as out of habit, he removed his shoes. Mercedes did the same, her high boots flopping over onto his shorter ones.

"I was just making rolls for dinner tonight, so excuse the mess – I wasn't expecting company," his mother said as she passed them into the kitchen immediately on the right. Its warmth and lingering smell of yeast welcomed him, but he wondered why she hadn't asked about Mercedes yet. As a kid, what few friends he'd had had been interrogated to death by this point – why was this, why was _she_, any different?

The kitchen table was almost immediately in front of them, while two windows let in even more light – one at the far end on the left above the sink, and one closer on the right overlooking the front garden. On the table was a spray of flowers from the garden, wilting from having not yet been put in the vase that stood beside them. Despite himself he frowned – on his last few visits he'd noticed her becoming more and more inclined to get distracted halfway through a task, which was very unlike her.

"Please sit! I'll just put some water on to boil. Tea? Or do you drink coffee now? You weren't clear in your letters when I asked you…"

Jean looked up from glancing over some of those letters on the table. His mother was filling a kettle at the sink. "Tea's fine, Mom." He said as he pulled out his usual chair – the one nearest the door – and perched awkwardly in it. Mercedes sat across from him, seeming strangely at ease – no doubt put there by his discomfort. His mother still hadn't, yet, but eventually the floodgates would open and she was going to start quizzing Mercedes until her ears bled. He waited gingerly for it like the sting of witch hazel on a scraped knee.

Soon enough tea was brought and set between them, and his mother took up her usual seat at one end of the table nearest the kitchen. She poured for them all, and then the awkward silence heightened. Neither she nor Mercedes touched their tea and kept their hands in their lap – the similarity was almost funny. He sipped his own and frowned at them. They looked between each other implicitly; Mercedes suppressed a smile by folding her lips into her mouth, and her eyebrows were raised, while his mother 'ahemed' softly and looked mildly disappointed, also raising her eyebrows.

"What?" he finally burst.

"Aren't you going to introduce your ladyfriend?" his mother whispered, leaning toward him a little and not looking at him.

Jean sat up rigidly, nearly dropping his teacup. He put it down with more force than necessary, feeling himself flush hotly, "First of all, I have never in my life had to introduce anyone to you – you always figured out all their vitals before we even got in the door, and second –"

"But this is different," his mother said lowly. "You're a grown man now. And you've never brought home a young woman before."

"– and second," Jean repeated, leaning on the table as if to smash it into the floorboards, "she isn't my 'ladyfriend'," he hissed.

"Oh, well, that's the term we used in my generation but if it embarrasses you –"

"Mom, just –"

"Mrs Kirstein," Mercedes jumped in, reaching out a hand, "My name's Mercedes Carello. Your son and I are comrades in the Scouting Legion. It's a pleasure to meet you finally." She was smiling gently, forgivingly, and her interruption silenced them both.

"Oh," his mother said, a little nervous laughter trickling into her voice. She hesitantly took Mercedes' hand – Jean almost laughed, because his mother never shook hands with anyone – and the smile on her own face grew stronger. "That's a very lovely name. Nice to meet you."

Though he was fairly certain his mother couldn't tell, as Jean angrily sipped his tea he watched over the rim of his cup as Mercedes seemed to struggle inwardly with what else to say. The arches of her eyebrows twitched downward a little, as did the corners of her mouth as it parted a little, searching for words. "You…have a lovely home. We didn't have as nice a garden where I grew up – you must have a green thumb, as they say."

His mother cooed in delight and Jean tried not to let it get under his skin. "Why thank you! Where – oh," she jumped a little in her seat as her eyes alighted on the flowers she'd forgotten earlier. "Oh goodness."

Mercedes caught her line of sight and held up a hand, "No please, enjoy your tea. You must not get a chance to sit down much. I'll get them."

Jean was flabbergasted. He hadn't expected Mercedes to be like this at all – tact was leaking out of her pores and it was eerily fascinating. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she stood and dragged the vase, half-full with water already, closer and began to strip the leaves off the lower portion of the flower stems, plucking off blooms that were too far-gone. Snipping off a tiny part of the stem bottoms to refresh the cut, one by one she assembled the flowers in the vase. He was disturbed to realize that he liked watching her do this, and looked away back to his tea only to see that his cup was empty. His mother was watching him with an excited smile and he flushed again, frowning and looking away.

"For someone who didn't grow up around flowers, you seem to know what you're doing!" his mother said.

"Thank you, that's kind. Are these your favorite?" Mercedes paused to take a sip of her tea.

"I much prefer lilies, but you rarely see them in Trost," his mother responded and looked down into her tea. "Maybe in the Interior – I'm sure everyone can afford them there."

After an almost imperceptible pause, Mercedes said, "Well, personally I think these outshine any of those hothouse bouquets." She lifted one of the drooping yellow heads of the tulips, smelled it. "They have more love in them, y'know? And that's what counts."

His mother perked up and sat back in her seat in an almost triumphant way. "Yes! You're very right."

* * *

After dinner – of course, they had to stay – Jean had been frustrated by Mercedes' insistence that she wash up so that mother and son could visit. His mother, of course, had been flattered and very pleased at this; he could almost see her ticking off a list of 'wife qualifications' in her head and it maddened him. What was more perplexing still was why Mercedes was acting this way. She was almost a completely different person – from the navy blue dress and silver earrings she'd worn to the way she'd spoken and acted around his mother – and he had trouble telling if it was just another facet to her personality or whether it was an act. And if it was an act…for whose benefit?

He used the excuse of refilling the kettle to extract himself from his mother's endless questions and nagging, and joined Mercedes at the sink. Somehow, she'd managed to get soap suds all the way up to her elbows and on her chin, and he stared at her quizzically, watching how she fumbled with the dish brush and awkwardly half-rinsed the dishes, piling them haphazardly on the drying rack.

"You…placed Third of your Division, know how to charm the apron off my mother, and yet…you can't wash dishes?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"You should be visiting with her, Jean," she said implicitly and did not look at him.

He sighed loudly. "How long am I supposed to stay here? Why are we still here? Are you playing some kind of cruel joke? You like to watch me suffer, don't you?" He shoved his way in to refill the kettle.

Mercedes rested the dish and rag she'd been holding in the sink, looking at him critically. "Jean, it's not a cruel joke. You need to visit with your mother. You see how much she misses you."

He withdrew the kettle. "But the nagging and the face-pinching and the _questions_ –"

"Stop it," she snapped, and it was different – it wasn't playful. "Stop being mean to her."

The kettle was placed back on the stove with a loud clack and Jean snatched the long-stemmed matches in their little brass pot on the shelf, still out of reach of children. "What do you care? That's all I ever hear from you guys." He plucked one of the matches, struck it to relight the fire in the stove.

"Has it occurred to you that you're one of the few who has a mother who's alive and well? We're jealous, Jean. You're taking that blessing for granted."

"I'm not," he muttered, despite her words having managed to strike deep.

"Stop acting like a child, because you're certainly not one anymore." Crockery scraped against crockery as another bowl was added to the pile. "Your mother deserves far more respect and kindness – you're all she has left."

There was silence apart from the running and sloshing of water; Jean hung still, watching the fire come back to life in the blackened lung of the stove, until the match burned down and bit at his fingers. He hissed and violently waved it out, standing upright. He closed the little stove door with his knee. To his surprise, when he turned around Mercedes had turned around too, pausing the washing up to dry a clean teacup.

Once done, she held it out to him and her even gaze settled on him. "You can start by bringing her some more tea," she said, and this time the bite was gone from her voice – maybe even tinged with sympathy.

After a moment of wrestling with his own stubbornness and her stare, Jean took the cup from her. Before he walked away, he reached out and irritably wiped the soap suds off her chin with the side of his hand, huffing irritably. He did as bade.

When he brought tea for his mother, who was sitting in her own nervous energy in what constituted their small living area on the other side of the hall, she looked up with a fair amount of surprise and gratefulness.

"Oh," she exclaimed. Her head lowered as she smiled and looked up at him, endeared, and took the proffered cup. She clucked her tongue. "Jeanbo. Thank you."

Jean, Mercedes' words in mind, tried not to bristle at the nickname like he usually did. "Thought you may want another cup," he said, the words feeling alien on his tongue. He sat on the other end of the worn settee.

"You didn't have to do that."

"No, I did," he said lowly, and the admission echoed in the dim room.

He didn't look at his mother, but judging by her shocked silence she seemed to be absorbing those three crucial words. At length she said carefully, "Mercedes – she's different, isn't she?"

Jean was only half-sure of what she meant by that. He crossed one ankle over his knee, leaning back and folding his arms. When he glanced briefly at his mother, he didn't find the annoying, knowing smile he expected; rather a gentleness and caution he he'd never seen – or maybe never noticed – before.

She seemed to notice he wasn't going to respond, and sipped her tea. "It probably doesn't matter, but I like her. I'm glad you brought her over."

Jean felt something in him soften at this, breathe more easily. "It matters, Mom." He resettled awkwardly, bracing one elbow on the arm of settee. Though he looked away at the fire in the hearth across from them, despite not wanting to he reached across and held her free hand, hiding his mouth with his other. This time, he didn't recoil when she squeezed it.


	13. Tender - Jean, OC

For the letter 'T', I was given 'tender'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: Jean, Mercedes (OC)  
Genre: Romance (fluff)

* * *

Tender

_**adjective **_ten·der\ˈten-dər\**  
**: very loving and gentle : showing affection and love for someone or something : not tough : painful when touched

_(Another version of their first kiss)_

Jean opened the white-painted door of the little Trost church at the crossroads, and it creaked on its hinges. He stepped over the threshold between the moonlit night and the candlelit dark, and closed it behind him. After an initial divider of carved wooden posts, the aisle with its thin carpet – a red that now looked maroon in the dim light – began, leading under the three wrought-iron candelabras and through the fifteen or so empty rows of pews. Tiers of tiny candles burnt in front of the altar, offerings to the quiet; they provided a warm glow that drew him forward. The entire space was hushed as if blanketed in snow.

Mercedes sat in front of the candles on the single step pronouncing the sanctuary; on remembering the term, Jean also recalled from somewhere that arrests were forbidden from being made there. The thought faded when he saw her stand. She had been the one to suggest meeting at the church, but he certainly hadn't expected her to be inside it.

Jean didn't know precisely why he was here. Having strangely successfully negotiated meeting each other's mother and grandmother, they both seemed to have fallen into reluctantly agreeing to yet another venturing-out together. He wasn't sure what this meant for them. He wasn't sure what this meant for _him_ – he was even starting to prefer the thought of her company versus the others, which a month ago he couldn't have said.

She was quiet as he wandered toward her, looking around and above him at the tall windows with their darkly luminous stained glass, the beams of the arched ceiling. But eventually, it became obvious that there was nothing left for him to look at, and returned his gaze back to her. Her hair was pulled back in a barrette at the base of her skull, and she wore the familiar plain red skirt that was split to her knees, but this time, a dark cardigan over a skin-colored camisole instead of her usual brown shirt. He couldn't help but notice the lace edging the neckline of the camisole, melting into her skin. Had she really made an attempt to dress up?

"Did you – is that –" he couldn't help but ask.

Mercedes brought a hand up to cover herself and stepped back. "No. I just like wearing it," she insisted.

"Oh." He turned away, toying with one of the little circular candles in its individual dish. "It, um, looks nice, is all," he added more irritably than he intended to.

"Oh," she echoed him. "Thank you."

After a moment's silence, watching hardly-felt draughts sway the tiny flames back and forth, he said, "I was expecting you outside the church."

"It seemed quiet in here," she shrugged.

"Quieter than Trost in the middle of the night?"

"So I came inside to have a look. Am I criminal?"

"Maybe."

"Shut up."

Light laughter that died quickly. He heard her make a surprised noise, and turned. She was holding cupped hands over the candle tiers, swaying back and forth, reaching out, and he was about to make a joke when he saw she was trying to catch a large moth fluttering wildly above the flames. He dashed over to her when she leaned forward particularly far, grabbing her hair to keep it out of the candles.

"You…are really fucking strange," he said. He contorted his free hand to also hold onto the hem of her cardigan, trying to lift it to draw the corners back out of the way.

"We're in a church, watch your mouth," she responded, softly clapping her hands in an attempt to grab the moth.

Mindful of her comment, Jean also tried not to let his body touch hers and snatched his gaze away from the lace lying against her chest. "Who knew you were the sanctimonious type."

"And who knew you knew big words like sanctimonious."

"Just hurry up and get the stupid moth." He saw her grin, and tried not to smile.

Another surprised noise, another soft clap, and Mercedes fell back on her heels. She kept her hands together as they stepped back from the candles. "Got her."

"'Her'? It could be a 'him'."

"Whatever, let's just bring it outside."

Reflecting on how he was once again slave to her whims despite himself, he followed her back down the aisle of the church. "Good thing we found the moth. Who knows what kind of adventures and trouble we would have got into otherwise." He opened the door for her and she walked out onto the doorstep; he paused behind her.

"I hate to think what kind of adventures you get up to in your free time, Jean Kirstein, particularly the last day before you go back on expedition," Mercedes said with a smile, opening her palms to the moonlight. The moth, the same color as her camisole with dark eyes on the tips of its wings, wandered over her fingers but did not fly away immediately.

Was that a flirt? He was fairly sure that was a flirt. Jean blushed a little and made some inane noises because he couldn't think of a witty response. But the point had been made – what exactly was he doing here with Mercedes of all people the last day before he left? The last night, rather. They'd made no firm plans, only that they'd meet at the church, and that they'd be together.

_Perhaps that was enough after all,_ he reflected, watching her turn over her hand so the moth could continue to climb over the fine bones beneath her skin. He stepped up behind her more closely to get a better look. Its little furry antennae twitched as if providing a running commentary to its travels. Getting lost in watching its movements, he found himself ridiculously envious of its ability to edge its way up her wrist and arm. His heart felt heavy. "He likes you," he said softly. "Looks like he doesn't want to leave."

Mercedes breathed in deeply, turning her head ever so slightly. She hesitated, then said, "He'll have to eventually. Otherwise why have wings?" Her arm rose to provide a horizontal surface for the moth to continue crawling.

"Do you really think wings were a choice?"

"No, and I don't blame him for having them. That's just how he was made to be. Though it doesn't mean that I can't imagine what it would be like if things were different." Her free hand brushed against his for the slightest of moments as if on accident.

Though Jean was certain they weren't talking about the moth anymore, he said, "I'm sure he wonders about that, too."

The moth reached her elbow, stopped, stretched its wings a couple of times, and flitted away like a piece of paper torn from a book. They watched it disappear into the night and continued looking for it even though it had long been lost to view.

After another moment, Mercedes said, "He only has a short life. Best to do what he wants with it." She slipped past him back into the church and he followed, closing the door quietly behind them.

Jean contemplated her words. She'd been referring to him, and she was right. His life was short. But he didn't know what he wanted – not really. It was easier to know what he didn't want. So he trailed Mercedes - who always seemed to know what she wanted - back into the nave of the peaceful church, back into this secluded pocket of one another's company that made him feel happier than any other moment in his life. The idea of losing these moments was painful in a way he didn't expect.

He reached out and grabbed her hand, halting her. It didn't take much effort to turn her around because she was already turning, already rising on her toes, already filling her arms with his body, already tilting her head so that his lips could easily meet hers – but at the last moment they both paused, sharing the same breath, holding back for what felt like forever before ever so gently closing the distance. He kissed her tenderly, insodoing staving off the ferocious thoughts of leaving and loss. He took in a kind of strength from her, and suddenly the ride tomorrow and all the rides thereafter didn't seem so bad; it became obvious to him that he'd been pursuing what he wanted all along.


	14. Defeat - Reiner, Connie, Mina, OC

For the letter 'D', I was given 'defeat'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: Reiner, Connie, Mina, Mercedes (OC), Shadis  
Genre: Comedy

* * *

Defeat

_**verb **_**de·feat****\di-****ˈ****fēt, dē-\  
**: to win a victory over (someone or something) in a war, contest, game, etc. : to cause (someone or something) to fail : to control or overcome (something)

_(Takes place in the trainee days, shortly after Mercedes starts training with the Southern Division once a week.)_

"Have you noticed how every Thursday, every time we have to do these stupid push-ups, Reiner always gets in the same spot?" Connie huffed between said push-ups.

Across from him, Mina did her best to scan the group. Shadis had arranged them in two lines facing each other since he thought having someone look at you helped the competitive spirit. Reiner was on Connie's right. She frowned and grunted into another push-up, exasperated that Connie would want to waste breath on a conversation. "No he isn't. Last week wasn't he somewhere else, like next to Annie or someone?"

"That's not what I mean," Connie said. "He's always opposite Mercedes – the girl from the Western Division."

Mina thought about it for a minute, and realized it was true as far as she could remember. She looked to her left, where the girl in question was rising and falling annoyingly easy; the end of her braid dipped into the red dust until it was coated like the tip of a paintbrush. From what she could see Reiner was keeping pace with her – hardly surprising.

"Do you think he's trying to intimidate her?" Connie whispered.

"You're even stupider than you look," Mina smiled to herself. "He's got the best seat in the house for looking down her shirt."

"What? Really?" Connie seemed genuinely surprised. Before Mina could advise against it, he seemed to find some secret reserve of strength and between push-ups, crab-walked himself a couple of paces until he was directly beside Reiner. He squinted ahead of him. "Oh. You're right. Damn."

Reiner flinched a little, "Connie, what gives? Give a guy some room."

Mina giggled to herself, mostly at Mercedes' quizzical expression as she watched the two boys in front of her.

"I know what you're up to you sneaky bastard. Very scenic –"

"Connie go away. I'm in the middle of winning a bet." Mercedes had switched to using one arm only and in response, so did Reiner. His eyebrows were drawn severely down but he was smirking.

"A bet?" Mina couldn't help but repeat.

"Whoever can do the most push-ups this session," Mercedes finally chimed in, "without stopping. If I win, Reiner has to get himself a different spot partner." She switched to her other arm.

"And if _I_ win, I get to stay put for the rest of the year," Reiner said smugly.

Mercedes cast her voice to one side at Mina, "I keep telling him that too much of a good thing isn't healthy."

"I'd say it's the opposite. This is the best motivator I've had in a while!"

"So are you equal right now?" Connie asked.

"Yep," Reiner said.

"Wait for it," Mercedes said lowly. "Wait for it…"

Mina frowned and looked between her and Reiner confusedly. "Wait for –"

Mercedes dipped very low to the ground and thrust herself upward to the point that her hands left the ground. Reiner mirrored her. It gave her just enough time to grab the neckline of her shirt with both hands and jerk it down for the briefest of moments, flashing him.

Startled, Reiner fell flat on his face. Mercedes simply sank into her next push-up. Connie collapsed in surprise too and although she tried to hold up her weight, Mina doubled-over with laughter.

"What's that fucking racket down there?" shouted Shadis from the other end of the line. "Carolina! Springer! Braun! If you've got enough air in your lungs to laugh, you can better spend it on some laps after we're done here!"

"I win," Mercedes said over the laughter.

"Well-played," Reiner acknowledged as he got back onto his toes and hands.

"Next week, _you_ are _elsewhere_."

"Totally worth it," Reiner grinned.


	15. Lost - OCs

For the letter 'L', I was given 'lost'.  
Rating: M  
Characters: Baena and Fhalz (OCs)  
Genre: Tragedy

* * *

Lost

**_adjective_ \ˈlȯst\  
**: unable to be found : not knowing where you are or how to get to where you want to go : unable to find your way : no longer held, owned, or possessed

_(Written as a duology with Frivolity)_

Baena flew back into the fray, this time ahead of Mercedes and Oliver. Fhalz had not been with them when the rear vanguard – where they had been confined – had been ordered to retreat. She could hear the other Elites shouting after them. But it didn't matter.

She rushed into the fire- and smoke-riddled twilit world, dodging Titans that had overrun the area. They swiped at her, tried to bite her out of the air, but she was too focused on calling for him, searching for him, her heartbeat so rapid it seemed to have clenched and was waiting for release.

_The last place I saw him – the last place I saw him,_ she thought. As soon as the answer presented itself, she rapidly diverted her course and didn't pause to check if the others were following. She headed for the river. That's where they'd been trying to secure the escape barges for what civilians remained.

There were Titans everywhere. Fire everywhere. Corpses. Smoke.

"Fhalz! Fhalz!"

Baena wasn't conscious of her body anymore – as only happened rarely in lucky moments of proficiency, but was now constant, everything became instinctual – and every obstacle seemed little more than drawings on paper. The river was ahead – dark, glistening – and she sped toward it. The evidence of the fight they'd left in the retreat softened the originally orderly lines – crumbled buildings, blood and steam coating and rising from the roads, debris tumbling over the trampled trees and paved promenade into the water. So many brown jackets with their shields and roses, scattered here and there like leaves, on rooftops and rocky piles, in pieces in the gutter.

_You're not going to be among them. You're not, _Baena insisted. But why wasn't he with them, if he wasn't – why had she been so sure to come back out here, if he wasn't? "Fhalz!"

Baena dropped through the smoke to the ground and began running, disengaging her lines as she went. It was easier to see finer details down here, and she hoped the smoke would obscure her from Titans – she couldn't expect Oliver and Mercedes to have her back anymore. She was too far out, too far gone, but it didn't matter.

Her run took her through the shattered market; the pile of a collapsed home was too much for her to clamber over so she took a shortcut around it, through a courtyard it'd once formed with other buildings. Down an alley, and out the other side to the promenade bordering the murky river.

"Fhalz!" she screamed until her voice cracked. Her throat, mouth and eyes felt dry. She turned left and began running up the promenade, pushing away memories of their walk here not so long ago in favor of the practical reason – he must have tried to retreat, and this would take him north to the Wall.

Baena vaulted over a fallen tree and nearly tripped when she realized who lay in the lee of its speckled trunk. She rapidly turned on her heel and fell to her knees.

"Hey, Baena."

Though her breath hitched in her throat, making her want to scream or cry some more, she forced her voice into a nervous sort of chipper, "There you are, silly. You had me worried." She reached out for him, the ring he'd given her glinting.

Fhalz's left leg was gone from the hip downward, and he seemed to have been bleeding for some time, judging by the amount of it that pooled underneath him, covering the pale green leaves of the tree and forging new channels in the gaps of the cobblestones, stretching ever outward. He lay at an awkward angle, with his other leg bent underneath him and his back askew against the tree trunk and one of its thicker branches, which were smeared with yet more blood. His face – so young; she'd forgotten how it was so young in those moments he wasn't unhappy – was strangely caved-in and partially swollen on its left side, and his left eye wouldn't open. Blood trickled from that ear and his mouth, caking his disheveled hair.

Baena reached out and stroked it away, lifting his combat glasses away in the same movement. She shuffled closer on her knees and took the hand that reached for her – his other lay limply on his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he said weakly.

"As you should be," she tried to tease, but her body was beginning to shake and her strength was going with it, "you're making us late to the homecoming party."

"Stop lying," Fhalz said, but affectionately. His hand lifted from hers and brushed a knuckle against her cheek. "I'm not coming home."

Baena's bottom lip began to tremble. "You're always such a cynical little shit!" she yelled at him, hitting the ground with her fist. "And you know how much I hate that!" She gripped his jacket with both hands, "How can you be so angry all the time? It's such a waste!"

"I wasn't angry all the time," he said. "You made me happy."

"I can still make you happy, you idiot! How dare you use the past tense!" Baena felt herself start to cry.

Fhalz heaved a breath and hacked up a wet cough; blood glistened on his teeth. His hand gripped her arm and pulled at her, and she maneuvered herself right up against him and held onto him, rocking, pressing her mouth to the top of his head. Through the ground beneath them she could feel the footsteps of Titans. The wilting leaves around them shivered.

"I'm sorry I didn't…make it to the wedding," he said, a gurgle in his voice. "But you have to promise me. Baena you have to promise me," Fhalz looked up at her and for the first time, she saw fear and desperation in his one open eye, swirling there in the maelstrom of deepest blue, "you have to live. You have to find someone else. You have to get married and have –" he coughed, splattering blood on his chest, "– all those babies you always talked about."

Baena choked out a single laugh and then began to weep.

"I'm sorry it couldn't be me. But promise me you'll do that?"

Baena nodded fitfully, trying to stem her tears.

This seemed to satisfy him and some of the fear left. He leant his head back against her chest, staring out at the river, his breathing disjointed and gulping. "One last thing."

"Anything, you dummy," she said, readjusting her grip on him to cling to life on his behalf.

"I'm going to miss your singing. Could you…hum a little something for me? Please. And you know I love you, right?" His hand dragged itself up his body and held onto her arm, as if bracing himself.

"Yes and yes. Yes and yes forever, dear one. I love you," she whispered.

Her hum was low, fractured, but musical. Her body still shook, and even moreso with this new effort. She rocked them both, her face pressed to his temple, humming into his ear. She didn't even know what song it was, or if it was a song at all. Maybe it was telling him about the future she'd imagined for them that would never come to pass – using sound rather than the words. She let it echo into his body, lulling his muscles and settling his broken bones. It was all she had ever hoped to be able to do.

Fhalz breathed deeply in. He whispered, "Our song was always…my favorite, Bae'."

He breathed out, his grip loosened and his hand fell from her arm; he was limp against her. Baena's voice cracked – she could no longer hold a note – and she fell silent, squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face in his shoulder.

When she looked up, hearing the sound of lines deploying and retracting, she didn't recognize anything. Her internal compass seemed forever shattered and she, like Fhalz, would never find her way home.


	16. Pristine - Sasha, Connie

For the letter 'P', I was given 'pristine'.  
Rating: K+  
Characters: Sasha, Connie  
Genre: Friendship, hints of fluffy romance. 

* * *

Pristine

_**adjective**_ pris·tine \ˈpris-ˌtēn, pri-ˈstēn, _especially British_ ˈpris-ˌtīn\  
: in perfect condition : completely clean, fresh, neat, etc. : not changed by people : left in its natural state

"This is no fun at all if I'm not allowed to have just a bite," Sasha whined. She slumped in her spot on the bench in the kitchen, propping her head up with one hand with her elbow on the rim of the apple barrel; her free hand continued to fish one fruit out after another. They'd been charged by Levi with inspecting the apple delivery, separating the good apples from the bad.

"Yeah, well, your idea of 'a bite' is an entire apple," grumbled Connie, seated opposite her on another bench, also fishing into the barrel. He came up with one that was mostly mushy, and discarded it into a pail by his foot.

"Not my fault if everyone else can't handle their size – they're God's candy. And we've got so many!"

They were about halfway through the waist-height barrel. Sasha's 'keep' basket behind her and the 'discard' pail by her feet were significantly emptier than Connie's, but he tried not to snap at her about it. He tried to ignore her agonizingly bored expression. Tried to ignore the half-hearted way she glanced at the yellow-pink fruit and either erroneously kept or threw it away, and the amount of times he had to get up to correct her assessment.

"Why did we get stuck with this?" she moaned. "There's so many other important things we could be doing!"

Connie returned his attention to what his hands were doing. The sticky juice of broken-open bruises was all over his hands at this point and bits of soft appleflesh were under his nails, like the blood he'd only just managed to scrub out. The backs of his hands were speckled with flakes of crushed leaf. The potent sweet smell hit him in waves every time he removed a single fruit.

He hadn't told her, but he'd in fact volunteered them for the task. Ever since the events of the past week, he hadn't had much time to think about his village and…what he'd seen, but over the past couple of days, ever since he'd had a chance to share his observations with Hanji and the others, it'd come back with a vengeance. There hadn't been much downtime where he didn't have to be ready for action.

He'd volunteered Sasha with him because, well…he wanted to talk about it. But he didn't want to bring it up. He was closer to her than the others, so he thought…he thought she might see past the face he put on, and ask him about it. Ask him about Ragako, and his mother.

Her aggravated noise drew his attention again. She was twirling a bad apple one way and then the other by its stem in front of her face, slow at first but then faster, until the worm-holes that pock-marked it became brown stripes circling it. At last the stem snapped free and the fruit plummeted back into the barrel with a thud, and Sasha's head fell to the barrel rim with it.

Connie frowned. Maybe this wasn't going to work after all. After a moment he quietly said, "I'll finish if you want."

Sasha looked up. "It's not that. I just want to eat one. The Captain won't miss one of the gross ones, right?" she began to root around in the barrel again, presumably for the one she'd just dropped.

It was Connie's turn to groan. "Sash', no, come on, don't eat the one with the worms. Here," he bent over and fished under his bench. "I was going to save it and smuggled it out to give it to you later, but…"

Her eyes widened at the sight of the apple in his hand. It was, to all intents and purposes, perfect. Somehow, despite the knocks and jumbles it must have been subjected to, it was pristine and bright – brighter than he felt fruit should be, almost. He bobbed it a little to get her attention again, and Sasha took it more gently than he expected, like it was something precious.

"Hey, I can't eat this. Look at it. It's too pretty," she said, turning it in her fingers, holding it up to the light coming in from outside through the open door.

"I thought you said you wanted one?"

"I do, but…" she trailed off. The apple was lowered and she stared at it in her hand. "Did you really save it for me?" she asked.

Connie shrugged. "Yeah," he said, surprised that she seemed surprised.

"Thanks, Connie."

"Don't mention it."

There was silence for a minute or two, in which he went back to sorting through the barrel. He noticed she still wasn't eating it, but didn't press. He had to stand, now, to be able to bend low enough inside the barrel to reach; while he was doing so, grabbing three at a time, he faintly heard Sasha moving around. When he re-emerged, her back was to him and she was doing something at the table. He sat back and examined the apples in his hand – two were bad but one was good.

Suddenly the gleaming, precisely-cut half of an apple was held in front of his face, one of the three visible seeds having also been cut in half. "Here, let's share," Sasha said.

They were still silent as they took slow bites of their apple halves. Connie stared at the side of the barrel, hunching over to eat. In the quiet, barely occupied, Connie's thoughts drifted to his parents. They were gone, and he was here, just…munching on an apple.

He couldn't take another bite. The cold flesh was pressed against his lip, but he couldn't open his mouth. He was frowning so hard it hurt. In fact, everything hurt, now that he'd stopped. Everything had stopped. Everything had stopped, and everything hurt.

"I'm sorry."

Sasha's voice drifted to him across the seemingly bottomless depths of the apple barrel, the pit inside him. It wasn't meant to be like this at all. She wasn't meant to be sorry for anything. None of them were.

"Don't be," he managed, though it came out croakier than he'd intended. His hand, with his apple half, lowered.

He heard her feet shuffled over the flagstones. She sat beside him; her hand, with her apple half – only a couple of bites in – hovered in his periphery close to his. "I'm sorry," she said again, even more earnestly but whispering this time.

He wouldn't look at her. His eyes were starting to sting and water; his free hand, despite how dirty it was, rubbed furiously at one eye.

She swapped her apple half into her other hand, and then Sasha's arm gently wrapped around his shoulders. Again, she said, "I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Connie burst, jerking a little and making her jump.

"I – I don't know! I just am," she stuttered.

He guffawed, once, but the tears had started despite his best efforts. He'd wanted to talk, yes, but the fact that he was crying just made him angry.

"I'm not very good at this," Sasha said. The worry in her voice was replaced by the unusual gentleness it'd had before as she said, "But…I'd like to be. I know there's no way I can imagine what you're going through, and I'm sorry I haven't been there for you like you've always been there for me – but I'd like to change that." She paused. He couldn't help but sniff. "Do you want to talk about it?" she whispered.

Connie felt himself shaking with the resurgence of his grief. Those words were a relief but now that they'd actually been spoken, he had no idea where to begin. Everything felt tangled and frozen, like that time he'd been playing with his grandmother's yarn and left it outside, only to find it some months later frozen in a puddle. It was beginning to thaw, but to talk to about – to really talk about it, in only the way he felt he could talk to her – wasn't going to be easy.

But…he could still feel her grip on his shoulder. Could feel every finger. There was confidence and loyalty there. He reached up and held onto her hand. It was warm, and sticky with apple juice – and it was all he needed.

"Please," he said, though it felt strange to speak the word without sarcasm. "But right now – can we – can we just…?"

He heard the smile in her voice. "Yeah, of course."

Connie let himself cry more openly and for once, Sasha kept quiet. The two of them sat there on the kitchen bench in the sunlight, wrapped in each other's arms and rocking slightly, the apple halves growing brown in their hands.


	17. Apathy - Hitch, Marlo

For the letter 'A', I was given 'apathy' - it also just so happens that this ticks off another drabble prompt, 'sparrow'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: Hitch, Marlo, brief mention of Annie  
Genre: Angst, Character Study 

* * *

Apathy / Sparrow

_**noun **_**ap·a·thy****\****ˈ****a-pə-thē\  
**: the feeling of not having much emotion or interest : an apathetic state

Hitch paused at the mouth of the alley, the hot sandwich she'd just bought from the street vendor hovering in front of her face and continuing to deliver its enticing smell into her nose. To her right, in a valley created by the tarp covering goods of some kind, an orange cat was toying with a bird. The bird – a sparrow, on closer inspection – was still alive, though very injured. It flopped around useless on a bloodied wing, much to the amusement of the cat, who would occasionally reach out and bat or nip at it as though to see what it would do next.

She frowned, and plucked a piece of thick-sliced ham from her sandwich. "Hey," she clicked a couple of times with her tongue and threw the meat farther back on the tarp. The cat looked between the meat and the sparrow, and then retreated a small ways to enjoy the easier meal.

Hitch rewrapped her sandwich in its wax paper and just about managed to shove it in her pocket. She stepped forward and carefully collected the sparrow into her hands, noticing the skittering trail of dark red on the sandy-gray fabric that it'd left in its wake. A small amount leaked onto her palm. She held it higher to inspect it – its daffodil seed of an eye looked tiredly back at her – and noticed its broken wing, mangled foot, the blood on its breast pale as her hair. There was a gruesome bite on its head that had permanently closed one eye and the tiny feathers crowning its head were slick and matted.

It cooed once, quietly, at her. It flopped its little body side to side and, defeated, rested against the heel of her thumb. She felt the cold smoothness of its beak against her skin, like a broken piece of shell of the hazelnuts she used to adore as a kid.

For some reason, she thought of Annie. There'd still been no word on where she was, and deep in the pit of her stomach Hitch knew some kind of vague truth about the whole matter that she didn't want to acknowledge, in much the same way she'd never wanted to acknowledge how her motives for joining the Military Police often sat sourly in the pit of her stomach.

"There's no saving you, is there?" she whispered to the sparrow.

Its leg kicked, its eye lazily closed.

"Hey! There you are!" she heard Marlo's voice behind her. "It's rude to leave people behind."

_Yes, it is,_ Hitch thought. An unexpectedly bitter sadness gripped her heart and she tried not to let it clench her fists over the tiny body she cradled. She brushed one thumb tenderly over its tawny feathers, and then tossed it back through the sunshine to the cat.

"Did you really just rescue that cat's prey only to throw it back?" Marlo accused, aghast. He waved his own sandwich at her, "You're heartless, you know that right?"

He took a bite and passed her by, reshouldering his rifle. Hitch had lost her appetite. She said nothing as she rubbed the blood of the bird into the lines of her palm.


	18. Innocence - OCs

For the letter 'I', I was given 'innocence'.  
Rating: K+  
Characters: Leon, Mercedes [OCs]  
Genre: Family, 'Backstory'

* * *

Innocence

_**noun **_**in·no·cence****\****ˈ****i-nə-sən(t)s\  
**: the state of being not guilty of a crime or other wrong act : lack of experience with the world and with the bad things that happen in life : lack of knowledge about something

Léon tasked himself with finding his daughter, since she strangely didn't respond to the call to dinner. The heavy summer light of the evening instantly warmed his skin as he stepped out of the front door, and as he wandered over the freshly-laid cobbles of the courtyard he glanced behind him, where the windows of his House of Heaven glinted like the planes of a cut gem.

"Mercedes!" he called.

The breeze rustled the trees lining the narrow road immediately in front of him, carrying the scent of the last of their white blooms as well as his voice. He wasn't worried about her just yet, in fairness, though he knew that outside of their family many parents would be mortified at the idea of letting a four-and-a-half year-old wander outside alone. Mercedes never went very far – at least not yet. He could tell by how curious she was that it wouldn't be long before he'd need a horse to go look for her.

This thought in mind, Léon headed for the stables. She already seemed to like the horses a lot, which was hardly surprising considering they were such a big part of the Carellos' lives. Even if she grew up and chose not to follow her parents by supplying the Scouting Legion with specially-bred steeds, this was a ranch – a significant portion of their daily activities was devoted to their care.

The long wooden building with its tightly-thatched roof was situated to the right of the house at a slight angle to the courtyard, shaded on its farthest end by tall pines. Léon's hand brushed over the end of the reinpost he'd knocked into the ground for when the Scouting Legion visited; it'd been over a year since they'd last headed this way, so he predicted an imminent return. One of the large double doors – that he still needed to paint – was ajar, and he smiled. Glancing behind him at the soft dirt, he picked out tiny bare footprints mingled with his own and that of hooves.

The smile still on his face, he moved into the cooler, stiller air of the stable, following the plank of evening sun he'd laid down by opening the door fully. The smell of straw and manure – that he still loved even after all these years – wrapped around him like a saddle blanket. He went left first, and not long later discovered one of the stall doors also ajar – the larger one, where they'd been keeping one of the mares and her young foal.

Léon leaned around the corner of the stall and saw his tiny daughter sitting peacefully in the hay with the chocolate-colored mare, leaning against her just as her foal did. The foal had had a difficult birth and was sickly – Léon didn't expect it to live, though he had been hoping it'd be the one he'd save for Mercedes. The mare lifted her head and grumbled quietly as he came inside the stall, but the three of them didn't otherwise stir.

He watched Mercedes stroke the shimmering black mane of the foal she sat next to, and noticed an unusually somber expression on her face. She'd been aware that the foal was sick, he knew, but this level of worry seemed too deep to be just that.

"There you are, little cat," he hummed to her across the short distance. She didn't look up; her cherubic lips – her mother's lips – were still turned down in a pout. "What's the matter?"

"Papa said sometimes when someone's sick a long time, they have to go away," she said. "That doesn't make sense. I think he lied."

Léon paused his steps and breathed deeply and carefully in, taken off guard. He reasoned she must be referring to the foal being sick, and asked about death – knowing that his father wasn't good at these kind of conversations, his response didn't surprise Léon. "What makes you think Papa lied?" he asked carefully. He crouched just as carefully beside her and petted the mare's snout.

Mercedes shrugged. "Why would you want to go away if you're sick? But I know what happens – you die. Why would he lie about that?"

Although surprised by her statement, Léon knew he had to tackle one thing at a time. He'd find out how she worked it out later. "Well, dearest," he began, sitting down cross-legged with her, "sometimes people lie – for both good reasons and bad reasons. The bad reasons are when someone wants to hurt you, or they don't like you, or they want to hide something from you. But the good reasons – well, the only good reason – is when you want to keep someone from being hurt."

He saw her little round face pinch until it looked like the underside of an apple. "Why would you want to do that? What's wrong with the truth?"

Léon smiled. It was only recently that she was starting to ask such precocious questions and however difficult it was making their lives, he was glad of it. "Here's an example," he prodded Mercedes' arm, "what if Momma really liked to wear the color orange – it made her happy. But what if I absolutely hated orange, and she asked me what I thought? Do you think I should make her unhappy by telling her I hate orange?"

"No," Mercedes conceded with a dip of her head.

"Exactly. It's not doing anyone any harm, so she should be able to wear what she wants if it makes her happy." He paused, watching the gears turn in his daughter's skull as she resumed playing with the foal's mane. "Now, what Papa did is a little more complicated. He thought that if he told you that things and people die, it would upset you. So, he told you something gentler instead." He paused again, angling himself to try to see her face better. "Does it upset you?"

"No. Papa did." She frowned more.

Léon clucked his tongue and cooed a 'come here', holding his arms wide. Mercedes crawled through the hay and into his lap and he wrapped his arms around her; she rested her head against his chest. "Papa didn't know that you could handle the truth. You're getting smarter every day and he can't keep up!" he chuckled a little and squeezed her. "How about this: I promise to never lie to you."

"You won't?" her squeak barely made it to his ears.

"As long as you promise that you will not ask a question that you don't think you can hear the answer to. Deal?"

After a short hesitation, she said, "Deal."

"That's my little cat," Léon grinned, rocking them a little. He sighed to himself contentedly and looked around the stable.

"Then…what happens when we die?"

"Oh," Léon said sagely, resettling them so he could lean back against the boards of the wall. "Well, no one knows for sure. People believe different things – some, that it's simply a long sleep that you don't wake up from; others, that you go to another world depending on whether you've been a good person or a bad person; some people even think that nothing happens – that's it, done – while even others still believe we come back to this life as something or someone else!"

"What do you believe, Daddy?"

"You know, I'm not sure. I used to believe that nothing happened, and that this life is the only one we have, but I may have changed my mind." After a moment of her not saying anything, he looked down at her, "What do _you_ believe?"

She readjusted so that she was looking at the foal. It scrambled a little on its scrawny legs – too scrawny, that much was obvious – to rest on its other side closer to its mother. The mare curved her neck to nuzzle her velvety nose through the tufts of hair on its crown.

"I think we live again," Mercedes said at length.

"That's a nice idea. I like that one."


	19. Quandary - Pixis, OC

For the letter 'Q', I was given 'quandary'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: Pixis, Mercedes [OC], Anka, Gustav  
Genre: General, 'Backstory'

The first excerpt is taken from the last chapter of 'The Jaguar', wherein Mercedes is sent to Pixis from the Scouting Legion. What follows was not in the original story, but was what transpired 'off-screen'.

* * *

Quandary

_**noun **_**quan·da·ry****\****ˈ****kwän-d(ə-)rē\  
**: a situation in which you are confused about what to do

_(From Chapter 22 of_ The Jaguar_)_

_Commander Pixis, with Anka and Gustav either side of him, stood ready as the tall double doors to the main hall of the Utopia Garrison headquarters opened, letting in not only the snow-flecked night air of the hinterland, but also a figure on horseback. The horse, a mare, was as dark as the night with a sculpted face and a coat slick with sweat, and her steps shook with exhaustion. Her rider leaned upright in the saddle once they were past the doorframe._

_A short young woman with a mess of glossy dark curls secured in a thick braid, tea-stained skin, sharp eyes that caught the firelight. A blood- and mud-speckled green cloak was slung around her shoulders, and she still had on her maneuvering gear as well as a rifle clutched in her hand. She had aged since he saw her last, on the Wall above Karanese those months prior. Though her blood-spotted face seemed exhausted, there was an undeniable resolution there._

Mercedes Carello,_ he thought._

_The harsh, steady clops of the mare's hooves came to a stop several feet away and the overpowering smell of over-run horse clogged their nostrils. Mercedes slid down from her mount and as she came forward, her hand stroked the mare's snout. She dropped her rifle on the ground._

_"Water, quickly," Pixis said to Anka, who immediately rushed off to comply._

_Warily he watched Mercedes trudge forward agonizingly slowly, as if she'd forgotten how to walk, her gaze shifting in and out of focus but never leaving them. One hand tugged at a messenger capsule strapped to her thigh until she'd freed it._

_"All this back and forth for you – spend a few months here, a few months there, then back to here," he commented cheerily, but it did not change her expression. "We're grateful to Erwin for sending you. Though I must say, we weren't expecting you until tomorrow."_

_At this Mercedes stopped short. After a moment's contemplation she pulled herself upright and into a salute. "Mercedes Carello, reporting, Sir."_

_('Current')_

Pixis saluted in return. _So, she made the run in a day – I didn't think Erwin would actually tell her to do that…_

Anka returned with a large brass pitcher full to the brim and a goblet, and headed for Mercedes. She eyed it tiredly but when Anka poured for her and offered the goblet to her, Mercedes took the pitcher and trudged back to her horse. She poured half the contents evenly over the mare's neck and then held the pitcher for her to drink. The mare's nose couldn't quite fit in the pitcher, so Mercedes tilted it and helped her drink. Anka looked at Pixis uncertainly.

Pixis cleared his throat. "We'll have your horse seen to." He gestured at Gustav. "You're right in that she deserves as much respite and recognition."

Once done, Mercedes walked back yet again and handed the empty pitcher back to Anka and plucked the goblet out of her hand, drinking carefully. Behind her, Gustav was leading the horse back outside. Done with the goblet, wordlessly she gave it back to Anka too.

_A methodical one, then,_ Pixis observed. His eyes didn't leave her as she finally closed the distance between them and held out the messenger capsule to him. He knew what was inside and wondered if she did, too, but took it anyhow. "Perhaps we should go somewhere you can sit."

"With all due respect, Commander," she said, "I think the biggest comfort you can offer me will be clarity." Her chin lifted a fraction and she stared at him expectantly, unmoving, unblinking.

Pixis considered this. While he and Erwin had talked at length about getting the Carello girl to this point and why it was necessary, they hadn't had much correspondence by way of what happened once she got here – what happened while they were waiting for the _possibility_ of a coup. He had wanted the opportunity to talk again with Erwin, determine what to tell her and where best to place her, but it didn't look like that was going to be possible.

_Ah, well, she is reporting to me now, after all, _he mused. "Due to the Battle of Trost, we find ourselves in dire need of skilled soldiers to re-form our Elite Squads," he said. "Considering your exemplary record with us and the recommendation of Commander Smith, we believe you are a more than able candidate."

She considered him for a moment. "And this was so urgent a belief that you would have me kill myself in order to get here to confirm it?" Her expression was unchanging and he was fairly sure he hadn't seen her blink. Come to think of it, he wondered whose blood was on her face – it couldn't be Titan blood, since it would have evaporated by now.

"You're alive, aren't you?" he said, trying to inject humor and control back into the situation.

Mercedes said nothing.

"Of course we'll allow you to rest for a few days. After that, we'd like you to begin shadowing Squad Leader Brzenska. If all goes well, you'll then be permitted to pick your own squad."

Mercedes said nothing. If he couldn't see her breathing, he'd have wondered if she'd died standing up with her eyes open.

Pixis finally let the congeniality drop from his face and frowned at her. "I know that –"

"Why am I here?" she suddenly and loudly demanded.

Anka moved toward them in response but Pixis held up a hand to pause her. "Because we wanted you to be. We need not offer another explanation." After a moment, he shook the messenger capsule a little. "No doubt you're wondering what's in here?" He unscrewed the end and pulled out a single sheet of paper, unrolled it, bent it a little so it would remain flat, and held it out for her to look at. He watched her eyes wash over it once, twice. He waited for the absolute, mocking blankness of it to drive his point home, cause some veil of defeat - however faint - to fall over her expression.

Instead, Mercedes' mouth drew into a rather lazy grin, and then she laughed briefly, absurdly. It shocked him a little, if he was truthful. He withdrew the paper and used rolling it back up to give himself something to do. When Mercedes' face resettled into a saner expression, it rapidly then became a frown directed back at him. Her eyes had become harder, like she'd shut him out. Not that it mattered. As long as she did what he said, he could keep her out of trouble and maybe, just maybe, have her prepared for what may be on the horizon.

"If you'll follow me, I'll need to handle your transfer paperwork," he said next, and turned on his heel and walked away without waiting to see if she followed. "Clearly rest is of a lesser priority to you right now, so I'm sure you won't mind if we go ahead and take care of a few details."

"I don't, no," she said, and her voice was closer than he thought it'd be, as if she was right on his heel. He hadn't seen or heard her move and this unsettled him a little. He tried to chock it down to the heightened awareness often brought about by the cocktail of adrenaline, exhaustion and the come-down from fear, which she'd no doubt experienced during the solo ride, but it didn't quite fit.

_Damnit, Erwin. She's nothing like the other Carellos,_ Pixis thought. _You've sent me a cat when you said you were sending me a hound. How am I supposed to expect any loyalty from this? I hope you've seen something I have not, otherwise we'll have quite the quandary with her when it comes time to make our move._


	20. Exploit(s) - OCs

For the letter 'E', I was given the word 'exploits'.  
Rating: T  
Characters: Mercedes, Baena, Fhalz, Oliver [OCs]  
Genre: Friendship, Humor

* * *

Exploit(s)

_**noun **_**ex·ploit****\****ˈ****ek-****ˌ****spl****ȯ****it, ik-****ˈ****\  
**: an exciting act or action  
OR  
_**verb **_**ex·ploit****\ik-****ˈ****spl****ȯ****it, ****ˈ****ek-****ˌ****\  
**: to get value or use from (something) : to use (someone or something) in a way that helps you unfairly

Mercedes finished getting dressed by shoving her still-damp hair up into a messy bun, much like her grandmother's, and securing it with a ribbon she borrowed from Baena. She then grabbed the canvas bag of supplies and ducked out of the dorm room. Baena was just coming up the hall outside carrying two folding chairs.

"Ready?" the taller girl asked.

"Yeah," Mercedes replied. "Have you seen him?"

"Oh yes," Baena said triumphantly. "I saw him heading out while I was in the kitchen." She set down the chairs briefly and fished out a pale blue handkerchief from the deep pocket in her knee-length coral sundress. "Here, look," she opened the handkerchief to reveal a handful of strawberries, and whispered, "I snatched these!" She rewrapped them and shoved them into the bag hanging from Mercedes' shoulder.

"Excellent, let's go."

They exited the Trost Garrison HQ building and rounded it, following the eastern stretch of the compound and in the process, passing the supply basement. It was a beautiful, warm day to have off, but their two squadmates weren't so lucky.

"Hey, where you two going with all that?" came Fhalz's voice.

Mercedes and Baena turned to see Fhalz and Oliver emerging from the ramp leading down into the basement, equipped for their day on the Wall.

"Just, uh, going sight-seeing!" Baena said, and the two of them stifled giggles and kept walking.

"Well if you're done by lunch, my mom's cooking," Oliver called after them. "That's where we'll be going since we only have half a day to worry about!"

"Sure!"

As soon as they rounded the corner out of sight, Mercedes asked, "Do you think we'll be done by lunch?"

"No." The two of them burst out laughing and picked up their pace into a jog.

They headed for a section of the city near the river that had been partially-destroyed during the Battle of Trost, that was slowly being rebuilt. The sounds of construction soared into the air – brickmasons' chisels, foremens' cries, the strain of rope – along with the dust and startled birds. Piles of cleared debris lined up against the mostly-intact houses to make way for wagons of lumber, brick and tile. The two young women navigated it easily.

It was at the riverside site of a large, multistoried building that they stopped – a flock of workers were reconstructing it from the ground up, with one team concentrating on the bricks for the walls while another continued to erect the timber for the upper floors. Baena and Mercedes set up their chairs nearby on the paved rise that formed the promenade between the building and the river, from which they could see both the workers and the river without seeming conspicuous.

"Squad Leader Richie Cotton, helping rebuild an orphanage," Baena sang happily as she settled into her seat.

"What better way to spend a beautiful day," Mercedes said.

"Than by watching a beautiful man," Baena finished.

The two of them dragged their chairs a little closer to the pedestrian railing and propped their feet on the iron bars. Mercedes reached between them and procured two canteens from the canvas bag, followed by the handkerchief of blueberries and a pair of wrapped breakfast sandwiches. Baena took a sandwich, a canteen, and the handkerchief, placing the first two in her lap and unwrapping the strawberries, holding it between them so they both could eat from it.

"Now where is that sexy bastard…" Mercedes said as she scanned the workers and popped a strawberry into her mouth. "We should start bringing a spyglass."

Baena shielded her eyes from the sun with her already-stained fingers. She made an excited noise. "There, on the second floor," she tipped her fingers toward it. "He's helping bring in the lumber. Oo, no shirt today. Even better."

"Y'know, part of me feels a bit guilty about doing this," said Mercedes. She unwrapped her sandwich but paused when she noticed Baena looking at her with eyebrows raised. "But not that guilty," she finished and took a bite.

Baena shrugged, "I mean, it's not harming anybody. And he's a jackass, so he has no right to be offended." She placed the empty handkerchief back in the bag and unscrewed the cap on her canteen.

"Right. And seriously, if he didn't want us to look at those stupidly defined abs of his –"

"Or that droolworthy back."

"Or that droolworthy back – really, does he go swimming five hours a night or something? – then he should have kept his shirt on. It's very simple."

"Very simple indeed," agreed Baena. She sipped her canteen. "Yum, lemonade."

The two of them sighed, ever so often craning their necks, tilting their heads or squinting to keep the new Squad Leader in sight as he confidently maneuvered around the scaffolding.

"I think his hair may actually be spun gold," Mercedes mused.

"_I _think I'm going to have his babies," Baena said as she crumpled the wax paper that had held her sandwich and tossed it into the bag between their chairs. She crossed her ankles the other way. "Oodles of them, just," she swung a hand through the air, "frolicking everywhere. We may actually need to live in that orphanage to house them all."

Mercedes chuckled. "'Oodles' of babies?" She brushed crumbs off her shorts.

"Yeah. I've always wanted lots of babies."

"Well I knew that, but – with Richie Cotton? Good genes, granted, but a jackass."

"Stop crushing my dreams with technicalities!" Baena hit her friend lightly on the leg.

The two of them giggled.

"Hey look, he's doing that thing we like," Baena took another sip from her canteen.

Mercedes peered closer. Richie Cotton paused as he sent the rigging down the side of the building to collect more lumber, lifted his arms, and wiped his hair back from his forehead. Even at this distance, it caused the two of them to sigh contentedly.

"I do like when he does that, though I'm not sure why," Mercedes hummed.

Baena clicked her tongue and shook her head once. "Mm. Richie Cotton." 

* * *

Three hours later, Fhalz and Oliver spotted the two girls on the promenade.

"There!" Fhalz exclaimed, pointing and frowning.

"Is that really spite in your voice?" Oliver chuckled.

"No – it's disappointment." Fhalz in the lead, his fists clenched, they walked over to their squadmates. "What in the world are you doing?"

They turned their heads to look over their shoulders, but didn't seem startled. "Nothing, just admiring the view," Baena said.

"Dried apple chip?" Mercedes held out a paper bag.

Oliver grabbed a chip and laughed at how Fhalz put his hands on his hips and looked between the girls and the work being done on the orphanage.

"I never took you both for being so interested in a construction site," Fhalz sneered. "Or that it required _you_ wearing a dress," he gestured to Baena, "and _you_ wearing shorts," he gestured to Mercedes.

"We're very altruistic like that," Mercedes shrugged.

"Wait…" Fhalz looked again at the scaffolding. After a moment, he scoffed. "I fucking knew it. Richie fucking Cotton!"

Baena hummed happily, "Fucking Richie Cotton," and she and Mercedes laughed.

"Oh my god," Fhalz's hand shot to his head.

"Come on, now. Don't be mad at the guy – he's doing a public service!" Mercedes said. She raised her canteen to take a sip, "And we just happen to be in the neighborhood to appreciate him doing it."

"Jealous?" Baena chirped. She took an apple chip and notched it between her front teeth, grinning.

"Absolutely not!" Fhalz said hotly. He folded his arms and looked away, "I've got better things to do than prance around half-naked pretending to do work."

Mercedes nodded at the site, "He built that wall."

"Oh shut up!"


	21. Zest - Petra, Levi

For the letter 'Z', I was given 'zest'.  
Rating: K  
Characters: Petra, Levi  
Genre: ...Companionship? Not quite friendship, not quite romance.

* * *

Zest

**noun \ˈzest\  
**: lively excitement : a feeling of enjoyment and enthusiasm : a lively quality that increases enjoyment, excitement, or energy : small pieces of the skin of a lemon, orange, or lime that are used to flavor food

Petra's route to her bunk took her past Captain Levi's pseudo-office. As usual, despite the late hour she saw the amber light from an oil lamp cast into the hall; she didn't call him out on it by looking into the room when she passed, but in her periphery she confirmed that he was indeed inside – the white of his back, turned to her, a brief and brighter gleam.

The ease with which thoughts of rest were replaced by the need to look after him still surprised her after all these months. She wasn't sure what caused it. No one, and certainly not Levi himself, had told her anything of his circumstances, troubles or past, but she felt it in the same way you could smell snow on the air even before the clouds came. So instead of going upstairs, she went to the kitchen.

A few other Scouts were gathered there, speaking in low tones for the benefit of the others that were sleeping above them, and though they greeted her briefly they didn't stop her. They seemed to know by now why she was here, what she was doing, even whom for, and seemed to accept it for what it was and didn't pry. Their conversations continued without her and Petra put the salvaged, dented kettle on the hook over the fire to boil water. The warmth of the hearth was soothing, reminding her of her need to sleep, and as a result she moved away from it to the meat block that served as their prep table.

Her calloused hand took an orange – sitting like a citrine egg in the pale nest created by the linen bag someone had collected them in – and her other found a clean teacup and saucer. Her hands moved without her mind having to tell them what to do; she sought out the vegetable peeler, still on the special spot on the shelf where she'd left it last, and carefully began to scrape it along the orange rind. Slivers of the zest fell softly into the bottom of the cup. She followed this quiet process with another: scooping loose black tea into a strainer, closing it, and letting it rest there too.

Perhaps it was a phase, but Levi had been taking his tea with citrus zest ever since she'd coaxed him into trying it. The satisfaction Petra had felt didn't come from a place of winning him over, but rather, that it was some small measure of joy she could offer him.

_Him, "Humanity's Strongest",_ she thought as she put down the peeler and orange to retrieve the kettle. _The man who – to others – appears to need nothing and appears not to seek happiness either._ The pouring of the water and the slight gurgle it made mimicked her comrades' laughter in the background, muffled and dim to her like the firelight. The scent of tea and oranges rose with the steam into her face and she inhaled deeply. Just as she would rarely make herself a cup to drink with him, she did not presume to know him better than anyone else – how could she? – but she knew there was something he gained from her gesture, whatever that may be, and that he did seek happiness in his own way – how could he not? And that was enough.

After peeling and slicing the orange she'd used and arranging the segments in a small bowl, she picked both this and the tea up and carried them out. The steam from the cup wafted past her shoulder as she retraced her steps.

Petra hovered at the doorframe. It was odd to realize their mutual understanding that no doubt he had heard someone approach, knew it was likely her, and still not stopped what he was doing – letting her take this small moment to watch him without asking why. Because she didn't know why. Not exactly. It was bittersweet to her – like the tea in her left hand – to watch him continue to scratch at his missives with his pen, pass his hand through his hair and over the back of his neck, crack only a single knuckle every so often. Tiny movements like that, so haphazard, so normal…when she had seen his grander movements that would be difficult for someone else come to him so naturally. It was though he was learning what was everyday. That, if nothing else, was her one clue to who he really was – the way she could get through to him.

Petra wordlessly slipped through the gap in the door without knocking like she always did. Obscurely, it'd come to symbolize her slipping through the gap in at least one layer of his defenses. She was conscious of how rare a privilege this one thing was and she never asked for anything else. Likewise for her it'd become a ritual in of itself, to the point that she was beginning to understand what devotion was built upon - minutes upon hours upon days upon years of repeating the same small, simple things without thought for oneself.

She rounded him and found a place to put his tea and the bowl of orange segments; the steam dissipated in the glow of the oil lamp. He did not look up. Though her usual tactic was to leave as silently as she'd arrived, this time she commented, "Don't stay up too late. It was a long day." She never expected a response, but liked to offer him this disguised chance to talk if he needed it. He never did.

He looked up, then. She only ever allowed herself to pause for a moment lest he think her expectant, but she smiled. He never smiled back, but over the last few visits she had begun to detect a slight relaxation of his face, a brightening of the steel of his eyes. Now, happily, was no exception. And then he was picking up his cup and sipping, still without a word – and still it was enough. Petra walked away.

"I think this is my favorite."

Petra halted at the door, half-in, half-out. She smiled more broadly. "I'm glad." She continued on her way.


	22. Bravery - Mikasa, Eren

For the letter 'B', I was given 'bravery'.

Rating: K  
Characters: Mikasa, Eren  
Genre: 'Character Study', Family

* * *

Bravery

**noun brav·ery \ˈbrāv-rē, ˈbrā-və-\  
**: the quality that allows someone to do things that are dangerous or frightening : the quality or state of being brave

They think I don't know what they say. I hear it in their voices and see it in their eyes – that pitying look, as though I'm blind or worse, naïve. They don't know that I lost naivety long before they did; I became aware of my decisions while their parents were still coaching them to understand what deciding meant, and I've been so aware of them that every little thing has become a decision to me. I pour effort into everything. I leave none unallocated. I channel everything I am in one direction, like a river; that's a type of love, I suppose, and where they seem to become confused.

I love Eren – they're correct in that. They're even correct in the few times they understand it as familial. But it's more. I have no room to _love_ anyone else in any other way, which isn't to say I don't care about anyone else – because I do – but this is different, and they misread its difference. My priority is Eren. I will see to his happiness and it's so intertwined with mine, I don't know where mine ends and his begins. What else can love be but the intensity of this? And I am apparently made blind by that. Happily.

On occasion it frightens me, in the way that you suddenly look back and are startled by how far you've gone like a child who's run too far from home. I know I'll never love anyone else and I understand what that entails, what that commits me to: a kind of celibacy, never having children, bereft of even a kiss. But every day I make the choice, and insodoing every day it affirms to me that it's a kind of bravery. I am willing to miss out on all those things for his sake, and I am not ignorant or fanatical – I am terribly informed and happily devoted. Would they have me be unhappy, and have less, just so it meant I fit their expectations? Wasn't it enough that I became strong for them? Don't they see who led me to do that? How can you eat the bread but not thank the hearth or the grain?

True, it exhausts me, but it fills me anew every day. Surely that's the definition of a well-spent life, however short it might be? What else could do that but love? And they think I don't know.


	23. Nonplus(ed)- Mikasa, Carla, Grisha, Eren

For the letter 'N', I was given 'nonplused'.

Rating: T to be safe  
Genre: 'Off-screen'/Backstory, Drama  
Characters: Carla, Grisha and Eren Yaeger, Mikasa Ackerman 

* * *

Nonplus(ed)  
_**  
noun**_** non·plus \ˌnän-ˈpləs\  
****:** a state of bafflement or perplexity

It was extremely late when Carla was woken by the sound of the front door being unlocked - she knew the late hour by the fact that she had stayed up, waiting, for far longer than she was normally able and even then, had reached her limit and fallen asleep only out of exhaustion. She hadn't felt this worried or this tired since she'd been in labor with Eren - it felt as though a similar life-changing event was coming to birth.

Her eyes still burned even after the short rest they'd been given, and Carla wiped at them. As she pushed herself upright and hurriedly slipped out of bed she wondered whether it was the worry or the tiredness that made her stomach churn and her muscles ache. She straightened the clothes she'd yet to change out of and made for the hall; the front door clunked shut and the cold draught from outside swirled around her ankles, prompting her to grab the shawl hung on the back of the door and fold it around her.

"Grisha? Eren?" she called hesitantly. She heard at least two sets of footsteps but thought she could hear a third. She wiped at her face and pushed the lank knot of her hair over her shoulder. Voices began to materialize - soft, familiar, comforting ones that were talking to another. "Who…" she began and moved into the light.

Grisha was stoking the nearly-dead kitchen fire, and Eren stood beside him; Eren held the hand of a raven-haired girl his age and both children's eyes were distant. All three looked up at her entry. The first thing Carla noticed was how the scarf she had made for Eren was wrapped around the girl - and the next was how matching red stains were on the hems of their clothing.

"We're sorry to have worried you, darling," Grisha said, rising. He tried to smile.

"What happened?" Carla whispered, releasing her hold on her torso enough to accept her husband's embrace. Her eyes were still trained on the children, not liking what she saw. She tried to remember the girl - she could have sworn she'd seen her once before.

"It's been a complicated night…" Grisha began, and pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and sat himself down.

"'Complicated'?" Carla repeated, a little incredulously.

There was silence, then - a silence that somehow felt dense, leaden, like stones in one's pockets. Grisha looked away; Eren looked at the girl - the Ackermans' daughter, Carla suddenly remembered and just as rapidly, remembered how far away they were and how late it was. She could feel her expression becoming strained.

Eren tugged the girl toward her, "This is Mikasa, Mom. She's staying with us now."

Carla cut her gaze to Grisha. "What's going on?"

Grisha raised a placating hand and said slowly, "It's going to take some time to explain -"

"Then start now!" Carla said, more forcefully than she'd intended with the children present.

"I found the bad guys!" Eren began with horrifying gusto. "They'd got her and they were going to hurt her and we kill-"

"Eren," Grisha interrupted sharply.

But Carla had heard. The silence returned, broken only by the popping of the fire with its new log in its hungry jaws. Carla looked between her son and husband, begging them to say something to make the images leave her head. They didn't, merely looked to her as they always did to offer them some kind of lifeline. She had nothing.

"Mrs Yaeger…"

Carla dragged her eyes away from the blood on Eren's cuff, and met those of Mikasa. Under their pitiably quiet, helpless, jet-black gravity Carla composed herself.

"I'm sorry," Mikasa said, soft as the snow that'd melted in her hair.

Carla was baffled by the apology, and frowned. It wasn't the mindless apologies or even the confused ones she was used to hearing from children, but rather, genuine and in full understanding of what was being apologized for - something farther-reaching than this one night's convenience, almost. She stood gaping at the girl for a few moments before she could think of what to do or say in return; she knelt in front of her, "There's nothing to be sorry for, Mikasa," she said, and followed her compulsion to reach out and take the girl in her arms. When her grip tightened Carla knew she'd done the right thing and tightened her own.

"They killed my parents - they were going to sell me. We killed them," Mikasa admitted into the crook of Carla's shoulder.

Carla did not let go; she calmed the furious pattering of her heart in her throat and glanced at Grisha. His gray eyes remained bright, encouraging and apologetic in turn. She knew he had had few words of wisdom or comfort for Mikasa - it wasn't his strong suit - and was looking to his wife to supply them, and she felt her love for him and their son and yes, this sudden, poor child that'd been brought to her trump the panic and incredulity and confusion to do just that.

"While I don't…" Carla trailed off, tried again, "You had to defend yourselves. It isn't your fault, darling. Believe that. Evil isn't called - it seeks." She watched Grisha look away and at first this confused her, until Eren came in her field of vision and Grisha placed his hand on Eren's shoulder and squeezed. "This is your home now," Carla said to Mikasa. "We'll get through this, as a family."

She gently pulled Mikasa back from her, and shifted her hands up from her tiny shoulders to hold her damp, flushed face. Her thumbs stroked over her cheeks and she smiled at her. Mikasa tried to smile back at her, but quickly darted back into the embrace. Carla rocked a little on her heels and stroked Mikasa's hair. She reflected that she'd wanted a daughter next, and suddenly felt sorry for the wish; she tried not to think of herself as having stolen the most precious possession from the dead. Instead, she prayed to them.

_I'll love her. I promise._


	24. Mercy - OC, Jean, Zackly

For the letter 'M', I was given 'mercy'.

Rating: T to be safe  
Genre: Drama  
Characters: Mercedes [OC], Jean, Zackly

* * *

Mercy

_**noun**_** mer·cy \ˈmər-sē\  
**: kind or forgiving treatment of someone who could be treated harshly  
: kindness or help given to people who are in a very bad or desperate situation  
: a good or lucky fact or situation

"_Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight - I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight,"_ Mercedes whispered, though Sebastien had fallen back to sleep a few minutes ago. She ran her fingers through the dark curls - hers - spilling over his little forehead, and then looked at Jean.

He blinked sleepily at her; they smiled softly at one another. He shifted in the bed to get his feet back under the covers, carefully so as not to disturb their son on his stomach and their daughter curled at his side. "I don't see why you have to stay an Envoy," he murmured. His long hand curled over Sebastien's back.

Mercedes turned onto her stomach and rose onto her elbows. She glanced out the nearby window and saw the first star able to poke its head through the clouds, and then returned her gaze to him. "The same reason you're still a Scout, still a Squad Leader," she said as she always did, diverting his attention from any shred of evidence of the real answer that might be on her face.

"Keeps us out of trouble, sets a good example," he supplied with a half-nod, half-shake of his head, smirking.

Mercedes smiled more strongly and leaned carefully over Serafina to give him a small kiss. "I'll be back soon. We'll go riding tomorrow."

"Be back for breakfast," Jean yawned.

Mercedes backed off the bed and straightened her pseudo-uniform, glancing over her shoulder at her sleeping family before leaving the room. She shut the door softly behind her and padded into the kitchen to put on her boots. 

* * *

Mercedes made a final pass around the Queen's private wing and concluded that all was sound - the guards she'd hand-picked were all present and nothing seemed untoward for tonight. Satisfied, she tucked the missives Historia had left for her in the black leather portfolio under her arm and headed toward the palace proper through the dark hall, herself little more than a shadow stalking away from its anchor. The polished tile was glossy underfoot and glimmering with firelight from the intermittent braziers. She oriented herself to the opposite wing; it was time for the more difficult portion of her duty, but the most crucial. The guards weren't the only thing she needed to periodically check.

_Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, _she repeated to herself over the echo of her boots. _I wish I may -_ she pushed open a door into the other wing's hall, _I wish I might -_ she followed the curved, carpeted path up the stairs and watched the star she'd seen from home through the tall windows. She came to the top of the stairs and her hand fell from the banister to the knife perpetually at her hip, brushing its hilt reassuringly out of habit. "Have the wish I wish tonight," she finished under her breath, the door of her destination in sight.

She didn't knock - this had been going on long enough for it not to be needed, nor for a visit to be scheduled, only expected like the next phase of the moon. It was always the same. She opened it, entered, and closed the door behind her in one fluid motion.

"One more meeting, one more mercy," came Zackly's voice from where he sat by the fire on the far wall. He didn't look over at her. "How many is it now?"

"One hundred and thirty-five," she replied without hesitation.

"I'm surprised you've kept such expert track, though I suppose I shouldn't be."

It was easy, now, after five years to walk to him; she swore she could almost see the track her feet had made in the carpet. Mercedes took her seat - yes, she reflected, she could rightly call it hers, since she doubted anyone else sat in it as much as she did - and laid both her portfolio and her knife on the table between them. The bone hilt and the pages it matched warmed in the firelight to the color of skin and in turn, the red leather portfolio they sat across from was disembodied blood.

"What is it this time?" he asked her, finally turning his attention from the fire.

Each visit varied - sometimes he would come out on top, sometimes she would. They'd met once a fortnight, give or take, for the past five years to barter with and blackmail the other and insodoing, keep the peace for the rest of the world outside this room. She almost knew him as well as she knew any member of her family and she had to admit the opposite was probably true now, too.

Mercedes sat up and opened her own portfolio, lifting the top page of the missives. Her tone was crisp. "The upcoming expedition will focus on radial reclamation outposts, with a bias toward the southern territories. You will not sabotage this in any way."

"And in return?"

"You get to live another month," Mercedes tilted her head to one side, glad for the faint victory she could feel in saying that.

"You know that's not what I mean," Zackly said evenly, taking her amusement as his own.

Briefly, the faces of her children came to mind, followed by the knives over their heads and the shadows that followed them every day.

"How old are they, now?" he continued.

Mercedes didn't respond. He knew how old they were - as old as this game they played.

Zackly leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on the table. "What do I get in return for allowing your children to live another month?"

Mercedes' eyes drifted to the red portfolio. Sometimes it was in exchange for walking with him to his torture dungeons and watching him work; sometimes it was as light as listening to him share an awful, confined-to-secrecy memory; sometimes he had her kill. For her own part, sometimes in exchange for his non-interference she would persuade others to allow certain things he favored, because they both understood that she was still not in a position to end his life. No one was - not really. But each visit, each barter, each mutual note in these awful, subjective ledgers they carried on the other brought her closer.

They'd both been lucky, she supposed. Her in particular. The barters had not been absurd. She knew, though, that it was only a matter of time before luck ran out. That being said, she was sure they'd both wondered if the other was only bluffing. A deadly bluff, of course, but a bluff nonetheless.

Zackly hooked his fingers - grown bonier like the rest of him over the years - around his ledger and flicked idly through the pages stiff from too heavy a hand. "In exchange…what will the lady of mercies do..." he mused to himself, scanning entries of past bargains.

She had no choice but to wait.

"Mercy, Mercy, Mercy-Mae," he said, and flicked another page.

She hadn't heard the nickname since her trainee days, when Brighid used to call her that and make her skin crawl. It was the same now, except he'd nearly managed to taint the rest of her name, too - occasionally, and she was fairly certain deliberately, he would shorten it as he'd done and change the sound just enough to substitute it with Merce, her namesake grand-aunt that had left him. They'd gone over that ground a few times.

She watched him seem to find something, and lay down the ledger. He grinned, and laughed at her. "Mercy may I," he said.

Mercedes tilted her head back and narrowed her eyes.

He seemed gleeful as he said, "Mercy may I ask to see your children?"

She frowned; it was an obscure request without the usual logic their barters contained. Allow him to see them, or else he'd have them killed? "Why?" She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, but more importantly wasn't sure of the consequences of outright denying or even counter-bargaining. The game felt shifted, slightly.

"I'm sure they look like you," he said, and closed his portfolio.

Her frown didn't lift.

"I want to see those I let live," he continued, and the way he said it made her fear for them stronger.

She'd always taken some small comfort in the fact that he couldn't know precisely what they looked like, and that that offered them some tiny measure of safety. She'd gleaned over the years that he believed she and Jean had hidden their actual children with a few other families, and accordingly was keeping an eye on all of them. If that mystery were to give way to absolute certainty, there'd be nothing to stop him.

"Bring them to me," he said, cementing her fear.

Mercedes kept her face expressionless. "You may be the age for it, but isn't it a little late to try to play grandfather? You must be going senile."

The humorless grin returned. "Am I?"

She regarded him a moment more, then replaced her knife on her person and took her portfolio, and stood.

As she strode away he called, "Tomorrow."

"...Tomorrow," she echoed, and left the room. Before she'd closed the door behind her she knew there was no way she was bringing her children to him, but even worse than the alternative was the thought that he probably knew she was never going to.


	25. Jeopardized - Connie, Sasha, Jean

For the letter 'J', I was given 'jeopardized'.

Rating: K+  
Genre: Drama, Romance  
Characters: Connie, Sasha, Jean

This was written to pair up with 'Pristine' (Alphabetique collection) and 'Moonshine' (Smorgasbord collection).

* * *

Jeopardized

_**verb**_** jeop·ar·dize \ˈje-pər-ˌdīz\  
**: to put (something or someone) in danger

_(A couple years from current manga time)_

"Honestly, you two should know better by now," Jean paced away a couple of steps, then whirled on them, "We've been in Squad Levi for nearly _three_ years and done this formation_ hundreds_ of times - I know you have an unconventional way of doing things but don't you see how you jeopardized us all?"

Connie leaned against a tree and folded his arms, looking away. Even the posture enraged Jean further. "I don't see what the big deal is."

Jean was aghast. "What the big -" he cut himself off and pushed a hand over his forehead, pressing back the strands of hair that'd come loose from his topknot. "If that aberrant had broken through we'd be dead!"

"That's exactly what we were trying to prevent!" Sasha objected hotly where she stood on a fallen trunk. She swooped a hand angrily outward, "If we'd lost Connie then the formation would have been broken anyway and we'd be a man down besides. How can you be so callous?"

"I'm not!" Jean retorted, "I don't want to lose anybody, least of all my friends, but as horrible as it sounds we have to keep things in perspective…" He didn't want to have this conversation, no matter how many times he'd had it with himself in the past.

"He's right, Sash'," Connie contributed lowly.

"Shut up - you would've done the same thing for me and don't pretend otherwise!" Sasha said, reeling on him. Jean was surprised to see her eyes watering in the moonlight.

"Of course I would have," Connie said, his voice rising.

"See!"

"Sasha," Jean tried, not feeling comfortable with how oddly emotional she was getting. The last thing he needed was for Captain Levi to arrive and see them bickering like kids.

"Stop pretending you're so different, Jean," Sasha said. She hopped down from the tree trunk and pushed a finger into his chest, "You've done far worse for 'Cee so how dare you judge me for this."

Indignation flared to life in Jean's chest. "Yeah, but I love her and that makes it -"

"It's no different!"

"Well I love _him_!"

The three of them froze at the simultaneous shouts and glanced between one another. Then, Sasha and Connie were looking somewhat shyly at one another; as though in sympathy, Connie smiled and wandered over to her first.

"There, I said it," Sasha mumbled and took his hand.

Jean rolled his eyes. "Finally."

"I love you, too," Connie said, quietly but happily.

"I know," Sasha replied, almost indignant herself. She pushed at his face with her free hand, frowning, and then brought it closer again to kiss it. "Stupid."


	26. Empathy - Annie

For the letter 'E', I was given 'empathy'.

Rating: T  
Genre: 'Off-screen', Character Study, Drama  
Character: Annie, mentions of Reiner, Bertolt and Marco

Written as a semi-companion soliloquy piece to 'Bravery'.

* * *

Empathy

_**noun**_** em·pa·thy \ˈem-pə-thē\  
**: the feeling that you understand and share another person's experiences and emotions : the ability to share someone else's feelings

_Reiner and Bertolt didn't have to do this._

That was all I could think of as I lay there, the valley of the roof cradling my back and Marco's gear resting against my legs and hips. I pushed a hand against my forehead in an attempt to stop the throbbing.

They didn't have to steal away in the middle of the night, sneaking past their fellow soldier to stare into the eyes of those two captured Titans. They didn't have to bring the blade down on them just right, didn't have to fumble about through the acrid blood-steam that made the edges of the tarps flap stupidly about. And they certainly didn't have to figure out whether they'd killed the enemy or part of themselves. I couldn't help but hate them a little, for that, though I knew I shouldn't.

Somehow it'd never been a problem to me before - having to kill Titans despite who I am. I could handle these two sides to me as easily as I could hold and flip a coin. But as I lay there listening to the cries of alarm and the search begin, staring at the clear night sky, suddenly it seemed so ridiculous - all of it - and I suppose that's where the first seed of resentment was planted. Why did I have to be the one? I had to be the one to face these questions, these doubts. Of course, I knew they slept with different terrors. Maybe we were always destined for different roads. Sometimes I wished we could just go home. But it's too late for that now, I suppose.

I'd never even hated what I was until I killed those two test subjects. I'd never questioned the morality of what we _were_, much less what we had to _do_. I killed them because they were a loose end. I did it with someone else's gear - made death into a convenience for my own ends. You never think about those making those kind of concessions when you sign up for a cause. And sure, at the end of the day you can make yourself feel better by saying, "Titans, they're just Titans".

I can't. I know the truth. And the truth is me, lying there, feeling like in killing those two I've killed Reiner, or Bertolt, or killed myself or any other child that was led into a mistaken choice. Worst of all is that I stood, I moved away, I lined up like everyone else and pretended nothing was wrong, that I'd done nothing, knowing full well that I would gladly do the same - and more - again. Am I a good person who did nothing, and thus let evil triumph? Or am I the evil that the good let live? I only know that am the thing I killed. Being the truth has made me a fraud and I can't see a way out.

_The truth is me, lying here._


End file.
